Bourbon In Your Eyes
by jazzywriter22
Summary: She's a piano-playing graduate student who's writing a historical novel. He's the new professor in the History department who has gone out of his way to avoid music since he was a boy. A story about choice, transformation, and the people who inspire others to do both.
1. Chapter 1

It is _really_ hot in Atlanta on this late August night.

I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand as I rush down Bar Street. I'm late. Caroline's going to kill me. The rubber soles of my worn Converse sneakers slap against the pavement as I run past all of the bars, pubs, and dance clubs that line the street. I shake my head at all of the auto-tuned pop music that I hear on my way. The mechanical, electronic music that pollutes today's airwaves absolutely breaks my heart. It's got no soul…no substance…no _passion_.

Thank the gods for blues rock. _That_ is some good, hard, gut-twisting stuff.

I slow my steps as Donovan's comes into sight. Donovan's is the only place I go on Bar Street. The beer is ice cold, they serve the best hot wings in Atlanta, and the blues and classic rock musicians that play here are ridiculously talented.

The best part about Donovan's? It's owned by my best friend and roommate, Matt Donovan.

I'm a bit biased. If you knew Matt you'd be biased, too. He's the best friend a girl could ask for.

I walk through the glass doors of Matt's bar. The place is _packed_. People of all ages, races, and professions are crowded into the dimly lit room. Excited chatter and the clinks of beer bottles fill the air. The bar's atmosphere feels especially positive tonight, and that makes me very happy.

I muscle my way to the bar and see Matt pouring someone a beer. As he makes his way towards me, I rap my knuckles on the wooden countertop to capture his attention. A sincere, gentle smile spreads across his face when he sees that it's me.

"Caroline's going to kill you for being late," he says as he slides me a bottle of SweetWater Georgia Brown. I twist the cap off and take a long drink of booze.

God, I love good beer.

I barely finish my swig before Caroline appears at my side. A frantic look is painted on her doll-like face.

"Could you be any later, Elena Gilbert? Hurry up, get on stage!"

She digs her fingers into my arm and drags me to the small stage at the back of the bar where Bonnie and Tyler are waiting for us. Tyler gives his guitar one last tune-up while Bonnie pounds pulsing rhythms into her bass drum. They both grin at me as I settle onto my piano stool.

"Way to show up, Billy Joel," Tyler quips. I playfully throw one of Bonnie's spare drum sticks at him. Bonnie laughs. Caroline snatches the drumstick off the floor and sighs loudly. She adjusts the microphone and points the drumstick at me.

"You ready?"

I nod. She asks the Bonnie and Tyler the same question, and they also respond in the affirmative. A smile crosses Caroline's face for the first time tonight.

"Showtime."


	2. Chapter 2

After getting someone else to man the bar, Matt joins us on stage and grabs his bass. The people around these parts call us Donovan's Band. It's not exactly an innovative band name, but it suits us just fine. We're loyal to Matt. We don't play anywhere but Donovan's.

And tonight, just like the dozens of other nights we play on this stage, we rock the house.

All of us are on fire tonight. Caroline's voice is perfection, a mixture of Susanna Hoffs' sugary rasp with the sass and fullness of Gwen Stefani. She is sweetness and grit, lemon meringue and nails, the hypnotic sound of her voice enough to spellbind our audience. All eyes in the bar are locked on her as she works the stage, capturing the entire room with her seductive magic.

Tyler is as captivated by Caroline's voice as the crowd is. The notes that sound from his guitar drip with the same reverence and desperation that he holds for her, his heavy, longing riffs cocooning the entire bar in a shell of needy warmth. Matt's bass intensifies the desirous notes of Tyler's guitar, giving our music a richness and depth with every slap of his instrument. Bonnie sits behind them at her drum set, her hands and drumsticks a wild blur of wood and limbs, her beats a pulsing life force that sustain and drive us forward.

And me? I don't just merely tickle my ivories.

I _make love_ to my ivories.

My fingers touch, tease, and caress the black and white piano keys. They slip and glide over them as if embracing a lover, coaxing sounds from the instrument the way I entice sighs, gasps, and moans from the men I rarely share my bed with. My eyes close as I let the music wash over me. The music controls my every action as I stroke my piano. I am a slave to the sound, a humble servant of the gods and goddesses of blues, jazz, soul, and rock.

We only play artists whose names start with 'J' tonight. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Johnny Cash. Jelly Roll Morton. Jack White. Joss Stone. The crowd showers us in rowdy applause at the end of every song. They beg us for more at the end of our two hour set, but all it takes is a wink and a smile from Caroline to appease our sound vultures, and the five of us depart the stage to the sounds of ardent appreciation.

As we make our way back to the bar, I hear a familiar voice call my name.

"Elena!"

I turn my body towards the source of the sound. I see my professor and thesis advisor, Alaric Saltzman, sitting at a table with several other professors from the University of Atlanta. I smile at him and decide to go say "Hi." As I approach their table, I realize that I don't recognize the person sitting to Alaric's right.

Wow.

I don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful, dangerous looking man in my entire life.


	3. Chapter 3

I slowly walk to Alaric's table, careful to keep my eyes from lingering on the beautiful man sitting at his right. Beautiful. That really is the best word to describe him, with feral and enigmatic being two close seconds. He has dark, tousled hair that looks as if he just emerged from a wild romp between the sheets. His cheekbones are high and pronounced, his jaw is strong and sharp, and his full lips are a dusky pink. And his eyes…holy smokes, his eyes. They're two pools of crystal blue perfection.

Good God, this man is fine.

This brings me to the question: what is he doing hanging out with a bunch of history professors?

Alaric smiles at me when I reach his table. "Great show as always, Elena. You all sounded really good."

"Thanks, Alaric." I can feel the mystery man's eyes on me, but I force myself to not look in his direction. "Did you have a good summer?"

"Very good. I got a tan," he says, lifting up the sleeve of his Rolling Stones t-shirt to reveal a distinct strip of pale skin. "At least all of the walking I did around the battlefield this summer was good for something."

Alaric specializes in military history. I'm writing a historical fiction novel set during the Civil War for my MFA thesis project. He and I met last year when I took his class on the battles of the Civil War to learn background knowledge for my novel. I asked him if he would be my advisor for the historical side of my thesis, he agreed, and since then we've built a good, professional friendship.

Alaric looks to his right. "Damon, this is the girl I was telling you about, the one who's writing a Civil War novel. Elena, this is Damon Salvatore, the department's newest history professor. Damon specializes in American history around the Civil War era."

Damon Salvatore. His name fits him perfectly. It's dark, exotic, and undeniably sexy. I mentally roll it around in my head, letting the individual syllables drip off my inner tongue.

Unfortunately, I lose my interest in Damon Salvatore as soon as I learn that he's a professor. University of Atlanta policy prohibits student-professor relationships. I have no desire to swoon over a man who is, for all degree-obtaining purposes, unattainable.

Professor Salvatore extends his hand to me. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Gilbert."

He has a voice that sounds like liquid velvet. In any other situation, his voice could have the power to undo me. It's sensual. Intimate. _Nice_.

I am, however, no swooning schoolgirl, and refuse to act like an idiot in front of a man who could be a lot of help to me and my novel. I place my hand in his and shake it twice. "You as well, Professor Salvatore." An unfamiliar electricity begins to tingle in my flesh, but I ignore it.

With time, this fluttering feeling _will _go away.

I will it to be so.


	4. Chapter 4

Alaric breaks through my skittish thoughts. "Would you like to join us, Elena?"

I look around the adjacent area for an empty chair. I'm not surprised when I can't find one. Empty chairs in Donovan's are unheard of after a Donovan's Band performance.

I'm really not trying to brag. That's just how things are around here. We're fortunate to have such devoted followers.

At the moment, I'm grateful to these followers for taking all of the empty chairs in the room. As much as I'd love to sit down and catch up with Alaric, I don't want my first conversation with Professor Salvatore to happen in a bar. I'd rather him _not_ associate me with booze. Besides, I'm not good at making small talk. I'm reserved. I'm shy. I prefer to sit quietly and observe other people instead of being the center of someone's attention. The only time I feel comfortable being in any sort of spotlight is when I play the piano with Donovan's Band. Caroline keeps trying to get me to share lead vocals with her, but I always refuse her attempts. That's too much unwanted attention focused on little old me.

No thank you.

I shake my head at Alaric's offer. "No thanks, I should probably get back to my friends now," I say, offering him an apologetic smile. He nods and takes a long sip of beer.

"Well, it was good seeing you tonight, Elena," he says. He stands and opens his arms to me. I instinctively go into them. Alaric's like a cool uncle I never had, and I know that he thinks of me like a sister.

As I wrap my arms around Alaric's body and return his squeeze, I look over his shoulder at Professor Salvatore. He's watching my exchange with Alaric with open curiosity. He stares at the place where my arms are wrapped around Alaric's back for several seconds before his eyes drift up to meet mine. His look is inquisitive, not in a suspicious or accusatory way, but I still pull away from Alaric's hug.

The last thing I need is to give Professor Salvatore even the smallest of inklings that my relationship with Alaric is...involved.

There's no involvement on either of our ends, I promise. Honestly, the thought of getting romantic with Alaric grosses me out.

I say my goodbyes to the entire table before I walk away. I can feel Professor Salvatore's eyes on me. They're twin lasers of curiosity, and they bore into my back the entire time. Part of me wants to return to the table and talk to him about the Civil War over a bottle of beer, but I can't do that without calling attention to myself.

I have no desire do that, especially if the attention in question belongs to an undeniably attractive, undeniably unavailable history professor.

As I make a mental note to schedule a meeting with Professor Salvatore during his office hours, I hear the sound of exchanged blows, quickly followed by Tyler's shouts.

"Stay the FUCK away from my girl, Klaus!"

* * *

><p><strong>This is just a little tease of what I've been working on lately. BIG thanks to ElvishGrrl for pre-reading the chapters and reassuring me that I'm not crazy. Are you intrigued so far?<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_Not again_.

I quickly weave my way through the bar to my friends. Tyler looks like he's one second away from a nuclear explosion. His fists are cocked and his jaw is clenched. His chest rises and falls with rapid, angry breaths. I even think that I hear him snarl. Even though Matt's doing his best to talk him down, I'm pretty sure that Caroline's gentle grasp on his arm is the only thing preventing him from going completely haywire right now. Tyler's a bit of a hothead. No one can calm him down like Caroline can.

Then again, _nothing_ riles Tyler up more than Klaus Mikaelson hitting on Caroline.

Klaus and his four other siblings – Elijah, Finn, Rebekah, and Kol – stand opposite the five of us in Donovan's Band. Ever since they moved from London to Atlanta last November, the Mikaelsons have been nothing but huge thorns in our sides. They're also in a band, though they play more of a variety of music than we do. They call themselves The Originals.

They are _not_ originals.

They steal our song arrangements. The first time Caroline heard them rip off our version of Muse's "I Belong to You" she stormed their stage and slapped Klaus in the middle of his vocals.

He's been creepily infatuated with her ever since.

I sidle up to Bonnie. "What happened?"

"Same old, same old." She rolls her jade, soulful eyes. "Klaus made a pass at Caroline in front of Tyler, Tyler freaked out like he always does and tried to punch Klaus in the face, and now Matt and Caroline are running interference so Tyler doesn't do anything that causes Klaus to press charges."

I chuckle bitterly and take a sip of my beer. "It's just another ordinary Friday night for Donovan's Band."

I hear someone chuckle softly at my comment, and I look up to see the corners of Elijah's mouth tilted upwards in a droll smile. Unlike the rest of his siblings, Elijah's actually a decent human being. He's not an instigator like Klaus and Kol, nor is he perpetually bored like Rebekah...and Finn's just plain _weird_. No, Elijah is oddly charming and honorable, and he can play the heck out of a piano, for which I feel a strange kinship to him.

He stands up and clears his throat. "Well, Niklaus, I believe you've had your fun here," he says in his guarded, chivalrous way. "We should be going."

Elijah and the rest of the Mikaelson siblings file past us, giving Klaus the opportunity to wink at Caroline once more. He says something to her, but I can't hear him because his voice is so low. His words cause Tyler's body to tense, and I brace myself for another fight. Thankfully, Elijah places a hand on Klaus' shoulder and guides him past our group.

Elijah pauses as he walks past me. He inclines his head in my direction.

"I enjoyed tonight's performance very much, Elena," he says with sincerity. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Thank you, Elijah," I say. He nods at me before following his siblings out of the bar.

I exhale a sigh of relief when they are gone. The tension visibly deflates from my chest, and I look around the room to find something to distract and calm me.

My brown eyes meet Professor Salvatore's blue ones. The furrow of his brow indicates that he watched my exchange with the Mikaelsons. I nod at him to indicate that everything is okay. He returns my nod with one of his own before turning to rejoin the conversation at his table. I watch him for several seconds longer before I return to my own friends, and all thoughts of Professor Salvatore melt from my mind.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of my weekend is uneventful. I play my piano. I force Matt to help me clean our apartment. I find a shady tree in a quiet place on campus and draft two more chapters of my book. I'm ready to start the last year of my MFA, and a genuine sense of excitement engulfs me when I wake up on Monday.

My morning passes by fairly quickly. I start my day teaching an undergraduate writing seminar. My students are more interested in stalking the latest Facebook updates than contributing valuable ideas to the class. I cut them some slack because it's the first day back, but they're going to receive a smackdown if this inattentiveness continues after this week. I spend the rest of my morning revising the two chapters I wrote this weekend. By the time my lunch date with Caroline rolls around, I'm starving and ready for a break.

I bite into the corner of my turkey sandwich and turn to face Caroline. "Are you covering any good stories at the station tonight?" Caroline's getting her Master's degree in Communications with a focus on Broadcast Journalism. She anchors the evening news for the University of Atlanta television station.

It's a widely known fact that the station has an unusually large spike in male viewers at 6:00pm.

Caroline shakes her head. "No, thank God. The undergrads at the station are completely incompetent at reporting! They're going to ruin my broadcast!"

"_Your_ broadcast?"

Caroline throws her hands up in the air. "Yes, Elena, _my_ broadcast! So help me God, Matt better have an entire bottle of whiskey set aside for me tonight, because I am sure as hell going to need it."

I take another bite of my sandwich and adjust my sunglasses on my nose. "You'll be fine, Caroline. Don't worry about tonight's broadcast, it's going to be great."

"Well, obviously it is, Elena, do you really think I'd let my station produce a crappy news program?" She fluffs her hair and reclines on the cotton blanket we're sitting on. "What's on your schedule this afternoon?"

"Three hour fiction seminar, then a meeting with Alaric for my thesis."

I think back to our brief interaction at Donovan's on Friday night, and Professor Salvatore's face crosses my mind. "The department hired a new history professor this summer."

"What specialty?"

"Civil War."

"Good! Maybe he...he is a he, right?"

I laugh. "Yes Caroline, the new professor is a he."

"Well, maybe _he_ can help you with your book," she says, rolling onto her stomach. "You should introduce yourself to him after you meet with Alaric."

"I actually met him on Friday night." I slip my feet back into my sneakers. "He came to Donovan's with Alaric."

"And?"

I pick up my messenger bag and stand up. "He seemed nice."

Caroline's response is muffled by the way her face is pressed into the blanket. "Tell me all about him later."

I resist the urge to tease her ceaseless love of gossip as I walk away from her. "Have a good nap, Caroline."

"Mrrrph."


	7. Chapter 7

After my fiction seminar ends, I walk across campus to McKenna Hall, home of the school's history department. Alaric's office is on the top floor, so I huff it up four flights of stairs. My messenger bag bulges from the combined weight of my books, laptop, and the two hundred page draft of my novel that I printed out for Alaric's review. It bangs against my legs with my every step, causing hisses of discomfort to slip from my lips.

I exhale a sigh of relief when I finally reach the fourth floor. Desperate to relieve my shoulders the agony of bearing a thousand pound bag, I hightail it over to the group of chairs in the waiting area outside of Alaric's office. As I sink into the comfort of the plush armchair, all of the aches that I just acquired seem to magically melt away.

I haven't been in McKenna since last May, so I take a quick look around the floor to reacclimatize myself. I feel so comfortable in this part of the building. If I ever become a professional academic, I want my office to be located somewhere as cozy as McKenna Hall. The professors' offices are located on either end of the hallway, five individual, triangular shaped rooms arranged in a semi circle around a cluster of waiting chairs. The middle of the hallway opens into a study alcove with oak furniture, endlessly stuffed bookshelves, and glass encased historical documents. It is a perfect workspace, welcoming and homely, and I am quickly reminded why I always came here after hours to do my schoolwork last year.

As I look back at Alaric's office, my eyes drift over the name placards outside of the four other rooms on this side of the hallway. _Arthur Mallite, Medieval Europe_. _Judith Burns, Modern Britain_. _Gordon Wilhelm, European History_.

_Damon Salvatore, American Civil War_.

Oh.

I stare at Professor Salvatore's office so intently I wonder if I'm going to burn a hole through his door. I debate whether or not I should knock on it, but I quickly decide against the notion. His door's closed, so either he's not in there or he wants privacy from interrupting grad students such as me. And anyways, I should really get Alaric's opinion on my thesis before I start asking random history professors to read it.

Then again, Professor Salvatore's not exactly a _random_ professor. Alaric _did_ introduce us at Donovan's. I'm pretty sure he wants me to ask Professor Salvatore for help with my novel. Talking to him now would just speed up the writing process.

Satisfied with my decision, I stand up from the armchair and smooth the wrinkles from my denim shorts. I walk over to Professor Salvatore's office and raise my fist to the door. As I'm about to knock, the door unexpectedly opens.

I jump back.

I peer into Professor Salvatore's office.

My eyes widen.

There, standing just inside his office door, is a disheveled looking Professor Salvatore...and an equally unruly looking Dr. Katherine Pierce.

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for all of your story alerts, favorites, and reviews! I appreciate them all so incredibly much. Drop me a line to let me know if you're still on board with this crazy train - it brightens my day to hear from you!<strong>

**What songs do you think Donovan's Band should perform?**


	8. Chapter 8

Let me tell you a few things about Dr. Katherine Pierce.

1) Despite being a mere thirty-five years old, she's easily one of the most accomplished professors in the history department. She has two Ph.D.'s from Harvard University, one in Eastern European History, the other in Slavic Languages. Excluding English, she's fluent in five languages and dabbles in several others. She's published two books on her studies on the Bulgarian family in the Middle Ages, she presents at over twenty conferences a year, and she's on the board of several historical societies. The woman's resume probably weighs as much as a brick.

2) She is the walking incarnation of every red-blooded, heterosexual male's "sexy professor" fantasy. Her thick, lush hair falls down her back in chocolate colored ringlets, and her coffee eyes are sharp and slaying. The fitted shirts, pencil skirts, and four inch heels she wears accentuate her toned figure. Tyler once made the mistake of describing her as "jizz-in-my-pants-smoking-hot" in front of Caroline, which resulted in her withholding sex from him for an entire month.

3) She's the biggest bitch I have ever met in the entirety of my twenty-four years.

There is nothing redeeming about this woman. I've never had a class with Dr. Pierce, but other people have told me things about her that make me want to unleash Bonnie's drumming wrath on her head. She openly favors and flirts with her male students. She's an unreasonably unfair grader and refuses to meet with her students to discuss their marks. She's rude and condescending when she interacts with her students and most of her colleagues, but she's all sugar and sweetness the second the department chair comes around.

I don't think Professor Salvatore has a clue what he's gotten himself into.

I lower my fist from the door and step away from his office. He avoids making eye contact with me as he hurriedly tames his unkempt hair, an embarrassed flush staining his cheeks. He looks like a little boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I'd laugh at the absurdity of the situation if I wasn't too busy imagining Dr. Pierce as a giant snickerdoodle.

Dr. Pierce clears her throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. "Eliza. What are you doing?"

Eliza?

I _really_ dislike this woman.

"It's Elena," I grit out. "I'm waiting for Alaric."

"Outside of Damon's office?"

_Bitch._

"I had some questions for Professor Salvatore," I say, looking at him as I speak. A spark of delighted surprise flickers across his face. I wonder if I'm the first student to come to his office since he was hired here.

Dr. Pierce, on the other hand, releases a loud sigh. "I suppose he can see you now." She pulls him to her face and plants an inappropriately hard kiss on his lips before strutting out of the room and down the hall.

Professor Salvatore's eyes are on her ass the entire time.

He stares after Dr. Pierce's retreating form, completely forgetting that I'm standing next to him. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and wait for him to remember me.

Alaric bursts through the stairwell door. "Elena!" His voice snaps Professor Salvatore out of his trance. "Were you talking to Damon about your thesis?"

I watch Alaric unlock his office. It isn't my place to comment on Professor Salvatore's...activities...with Dr. Pierce. What he does is none of my business.

I answer with a statement that is intentionally vague. "No, I believe Professor Salvatore was _busy_ at the time."

Wait, what?

I meant busy like "working on professor-y things," _not_ busy like "working my magic on my sexy female colleague"! Like I said, who am I to judge what Professor Salvatore does in his spare time?

Unfortunately, Professor Salvatore's narrowed eyes and clenched jaw signify that he thinks I am one of those impertinent, bratty students comment on everyone else's lives. I open my mouth to apologize, but he wordlessly storms back into his office and closes his door. I follow Alaric into his office as my spirits sink to the carpeted floor.


	9. Chapter 9

I am so mortified at what I implied about Professor Salvatore's actions that I avoid McKenna Hall for the rest of the week.

Yes, I know that evasion is the childish and cowardly road to take in this situation. What I _should_ do is swallow my pride and shame, approach Professor Salvatore in his office, and offer him the biggest apology that the world has ever heard.

Easier said than done, right?

However, I don't rip off my Band-Aides, literal or metaphorical. This apology is really a molehill in the grand scheme of things, but because I continually find ways to delay it, it grows into a mountain of discomfort that I really do _not_ want to conquer. Friday evening comes, and I still haven't apologized to Professor Salvatore, and it is eating me up inside.

"So just apologize to him," Matt says from behind the bar as he pours someone a Bud Light. It's Happy Hour at Donovan's. I'm sitting at the side of the bar with a pint of 5Seasons' Octane Espresso Milk Stout in my hand, updating him on the latest events in the "Elena is a gutless little girl who can't say she's sorry" campaign.

"I _want_ to apologize to him, but—"

"No buts, Elena." Matt rolls his eyes at me. I've vented to him about the Professor Salvatore situation every night for the past week. He's undoubtedly sick of listening to my self-grievances. "Stop moping around. Grow a pair, approach the man, and say you're sorry."

"It's not that easy, Matt."

"It _is_ that easy, Elena, and you're making it worse by shying away from it." The shrill sound of the telephone interrupts him, and he goes to answer it. I take another drink of beer as I let his words slosh around my head. He's right...as always.

Darn it.

I hear the click of the phone against the receiver and look over at Matt. He walks back to me with a remorseful expression on his face. I know this look.

"You need me to man the bar, don't you?"

He nods. "The food provider just arrived at the back of the bar, and I need to go help him unload everything." He takes my messenger bag from me and places it behind the bar as I finish the remainder of my beer. "The Happy Hour rush is mostly over, so you should be fine on your own until I get back."

"Do I get to keep the tips?" I tease, asking the same question I do every time Matt asks me to play bartender. He shakes his head as he starts to walk to the back storage rooms.

"You're the best, 'Lena!"

"And don't you forget it!" I call after him as I tie on a green Donovan's apron and survey the people seated at the bar. The man on the end of the bar holds a bottle of Red Brick Brown that is one gulp away from being empty, so I grab a new bottle and offer it to him.

As I process his transaction in the cash register, I hear Donovan's front door open. "Be with you in a second!" I call out. I hand the man his change, thank him for the two dollar tip he leaves me, and look to see who has seated themselves at the bar.

"Miss Gilbert."

_Crap_.

My eyes meet a familiar pair of blue ones. "Hello, Professor Salvatore."

* * *

><p><strong>Thank you for all of your reviews to this story! Whether you opt to review every chapter or just the one at the end of my posting session, I appreciate each and every review you leave me. And speaking of your reviews, I will respond to all of them before the next posting session. Promise. Love you all, and hope to hear from you soon! Questions, suggestions, and constructive criticism are always welcome and appreciated!<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

Professor Salvatore stares at me as I stand behind the bar. I grow self conscious under his heavy gaze. I look every bit like the sloppy, unprofessional college kid he probably thinks I am. My Donovan's apron is old and stained with spilt beer, grease, and other unidentified bar grime, and the faded Led Zeppelin shirt I wear has several holes in its sleeves.

Needless to say, if I knew that the universe would force me to confront Professor Salvatore at this very moment, I would have worn something a lot...better.

I can't just dive into this looming apology, so I start by making small talk. "Can I get you something?"

His shoulders are tense. He is obviously uncomfortable, and I don't think he's decided whether or not he will stay in his seat. "I didn't know that you work here."

"I don't. I'm covering for the owner while he takes care of a food delivery out back," I say, gesturing to the back of the bar. Professor Salvatore's eyes follow my hand before drifting back to my face.

"Got it."

He is quiet for several seconds. I'm tempted to grab one of the butcher's knives from the kitchen and see if I really can cut the tension between two people. I repeat my earlier question and breathe a sigh of relief when he orders bourbon.

I pour him a glass of Jim Beam. He doesn't drink from it at first, just cradles it between his hands and stares at the amber liquid. It's weird, but I've seen a lot of people do a lot of stranger things at Donovan's.

Professor Salvatore scoots to the edge of the bar stool. I silently panic. If he leaves, I'll have let another opportunity to apologize to him pass me by, and I'll feel like even more of a coward than I already do. I refuse to be a coward. In the immortal words of The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "I'm not a coward, I've just never been tested/I'd like to think that if I was I would pass." This moment, right here and now, is my test, and so help me God, I _will_ pass.

"I'm sorry," I suddenly blurt, sounding much less composed than I did in all of the "I'm sorries" I rehearsed throughout the week. "What I implied about you outside of Alaric's office on Monday was extremely uncalled for and inappropriate. Your private life and actions behind closed doors are none of my business, and I had no right to comment on both of them. I apologize for saying something that I shouldn't have said, and I promise that my behavior around you will be nothing but professional in the future."

I wait for Professor Salvatore's response. His scrutinous blue eyes cut a path straight to my heart and make it furiously pulse and thump against my chest. I immediately think of several things I should have said in place of the words that gushed from my mouth, but I do nothing but watch Professor Salvatore as he watches me with an indeterminate expression.

He finally takes a long drink of bourbon, swallows, and sets his glass down on the bar counter. He opens his mouth. I brace myself for his words.

"Don't worry about it, Elena."

The weight on my chest feels infinitely lighter. "Thank you, Professor Salvatore. I really am sorry—"

"It's fine," he says, shooting me a small smirk that does annoying things to my insides. "All's forgiven. We probably just caught each other at a bad time, right?"

"Right," I heartily agree, so happy to be back in his good graces that I give him a genuine smile of my own. His smirk falters for a second, but it quickly morphs into a nice smile.

Professor Salvatore is _really_ cute when he smiles.

That's annoying.

"So," he says, snapping me out of my unwelcome thoughts, "Tell me about this novel of yours."

* * *

><p>ht tp: /ww w.y o utu be .co m/wat ch?v =v7A8Mkg1qYQ


	11. Chapter 11

"It's about two brothers," I begin, my introversion evaporating into the seedy bar air. I'm not much of a talker, preferring to listen and let other people carry the conversation, but I love to talk about my novel. It's my baby, or, as Gollum would say, my _preciousssss_. I've poured so much time and energy into developing and writing it over the past year, and I love the story I've created so much.

Well, most of the time I love it. Sometimes my writer's block is so terrible that I find myself seconds away from saying "to hell with it", deleting the entire draft from my hard drive, and writing one of those awful teen sparkly vampire books for my final project.

Thank goodness I've been able to talk myself away from the edge...so far.

Professor Salvatore takes another sip of bourbon. "Names?"

"James and Stephen Whitmore. James is seven years older than Stephen. They live with their father on a plantation in Northern Virginia."

"No mother?"

"She died giving birth to Stephen. Stephen reminds Joseph – the brothers' father – of his dead wife, so Stephen is blatantly favored over James. James knows that it's not Stephen's fault for the awful way Joseph treats him, but a small part of him can't help but resent his brother for receiving all of their father's preference and love."

Professor Salvatore mutters something under his breath that sounds like "You have _no_ idea." I tilt my head at him in query, but he motions for me to continue, a darkly contemplative expression now present on his face.

"Anyway, the main part of the story takes place during the peak of the war in 1864. James is twenty-four and Stephen is seventeen, and they both enlist in the Confederate army. A month before they report for duty, the Stover family moves to town with their seventeen year-old daughter, Anne."

"Love at first sight?" Professor Salvatore wryly asks. I nod in agreement.

"They both fall hard, and with good reason. Not only is Anne beautiful, she's also a very loyal, fair, and compassionate person. She also doesn't allow herself to get swept up in the brothers' games to win her heart or ruin the other's chance of doing so."

"So she feels nothing for either of them?" Professor Salvatore demands, as if Anne's lack of romantic interest in either Whitmore is a personal insult.

I shake my head. "Eventually she does, but this story is about James and Stephen's connection with each other and the choices they make that affect their brotherhood. Yes, many of their decisions are made with Anne in mind, but their relationships with Anne are insignificant compared to the relationship they have with each other."

I can practically see the wheels turn in Professor Salvatore's head as he processes my words. My nerves instantly resurface. I really want Professor Salvatore to help me with my thesis. Alaric's great, but I need a Civil War expert to help me expand on the finer details of the war, specifically the emotional effects it had on the soldiers and their families and loved ones left at home. I'm not as concerned about the technical details of the Civil War as I am about the people that it impacted, and I hope that Professor Salvatore is willing to lead me to this information.

"I want to read everything you've written so far," he suddenly says, downing the rest of his bourbon and placing the empty glass on the bar. "Email me a copy of your current draft tonight so I can read it this weekend."

I open my mouth to thank him, but he has already pushed away from the bar stool. I watch him storm out of Donovan's, wondering what I said to make him leave so abruptly.


	12. Chapter 12

The second Matt resumes his position behind the bar, I dig my laptop out of my bag, look up Professor Salvatore's email address on the department website, and send him the current draft of my novel...after giving it a quick read-through to make sure there aren't any spelling errors or blatant narrative inconsistencies, of course. I'm still very intrigued by his strong reaction to the Whitmore brothers and their relationships with Anne. Maybe he'll tell me what that was all about when we meet next.

Yeah...probably not.

I'm tempted to look at Professor Salvatore's faculty profile on the department website to see what it says about him, but I hear boot steps approach my bar stool. I quickly close my computer, slip it back into my bag, and look towards the sounds of the rubber soles.

Bonnie!

"Wow Bonnie, you look amazing!" I say as Matt teases her with a wolf whistle. Bonnie gives him the finger before doing a runway-style spin in from of me. She really does look amazing, but then again, she always dresses like a rock star. Today she wears a silky silver top, a skintight black miniskirt, and her signature black motorcycle boots. She looks stunning, and I can guarantee you she knows it.

"What's up, Gilbert?" she says, slipping into the seat next to me. "Donovan, the usual. Stat."

Matt slides a double shot of whiskey in front of her which she slams back on the spot. He raises an eyebrow. "Fun day at the lab?"

The scowl that appears on Bonnie's face is venomous enough to melt human flesh. "I work with a bunch of fucking idiots."

Bonnie's a chemical lab technician at one of the best government research facilities in Atlanta. According to her, she spends all day playing with fire and "blowing shit up." I'm not sure exactly how much of that description is true, but I have caught her smelling like smoke from time to time.

"...and the dumbass nearly blew up the entire project!" she growls, downing another double shot of whiskey.

Matt chuckles and swats Bonnie's fingers away as they try to grab the whiskey bottle from his hands. "Good thing you were there to save it."

"Yeah, I saved both of our fucking jobs because I know how to use a goddamn fire extinguisher," she grumbles before whirling around to face me. "So help me God, Forbes better have Metallica on tomorrow night's set list."

Yes, Metallica.

Bonnie's a _huge_ metalhead.

Bill Ward, Nicko McBrain, and Lars Ulrich have _nothing_ on her drumming when she's in the zone. Bonnie drums with such speed and ferocity, I sometimes think the Devil himself possesses her when she's onstage.

"Forbes better what?" Caroline's voice sounds behind us, and we whirl around to see her towing a freshly showered Tyler towards our seats. Tyler's a trainer at the UofA athletic center.

Thank goodness he showered before he came out tonight.

Bonnie points a glittery nail at Caroline. "Metallica. Donovan's Band. Tomorrow night. I've got to beat my drums, Forbes."

"Really, Bonnie?" Caroline scoffs. "Didn't we just play your music?"

"Yeah, two fucking months ago!"

I listen to them bicker for several minutes before my thoughts drift back to my thesis...and to Professor Salvatore. I wonder if he'll actually read my novel over the weekend and how he'll react to the entire story, not just the snippets I told him a short while ago.

Maybe he'll be at our show tomorrow night.

The thought makes me flush and I don't know why.

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, my lovelies! As always, please drop me a line (or as many as you want, I love to hear from you) and let me know what you think of this batch of chapters. <strong>

**Side note: I may not update this story next week - I'm writing the 9th chapter of Birthmark this weekend :)**


	13. Chapter 13

Professor Salvatore doesn't make an appearance at our show.

I'm certainly not broken by his absence, but it would have been nice to see him in the crowd tonight. I want him to hear me play, especially since I'm doing that stupid thing where _I _think that _Professor Salvatore_ thinks I'm an inept idiot and have nothing going for me, least of all a Civil War novel that focuses more on the relationships between the characters than the battles and other technical details of the era. The crazy side of my brain is positive that if I can impress Professor Salvatore with my piano-playing talents, he'll realize that I am a competent human being and will have no hesitations about working with me on my thesis.

Don't worry, my logical side _knows_ that my thought process is irrational and misguided, but it just can't seem to reign itself in where Professor Salvatore's impression of me is concerned.

Regardless of Professor Salvatore's absence, Donovan's Band still has a great performance tonight. Bonnie and Caroline's musical interests dominate our set list...which is weird, considering Bonnie's all about Slayer and Caroline is in a Stevie Nicks kind of mood. I'mamused by the contradiction, but our audience is probably going to sue us for giving them auditory whiplash.

We end the show with a hard, gritty rendition of Edge of Seventeen and walk off the stage to the sounds of whoops and catcalls. Matt and I gently receive the crowd's attention, but Caroline, Bonnie, and Tyler soak up the praise, giving high fives to friends and strangers alike as they strut to the bar. The energy that surrounds us is empowering, and I have a vision of the five of us as superheroes, drawing power from our individual instruments and applause.

I go to share the idea with my bandmates, but they're all in the middle of conversations with people I don't know. I don't feel empowered enough to be social with strangers, so I grab the Terrapin Hopsecutioner IPA bottle that Matt slides me, slip to the side of the bar, and watch the various groups across the floor.

"I can't remember the last time I heard the same band play Motorhead and Fleetwood Mac on the same night."

I turn and see Elijah standing behind me with a pint glass in his hand. I can't help but laugh at the directness of his statement. "Bonnie and Caroline went to war over tonight's set list."

"Yes, obviously."

The Mikaelsons travel in packs, so I look around the bar for the rest of Elijah's siblings. "Where's your family?"

"Here." His brown eyes narrow as he scans the room. "Well, Fintan is lurking in the back corner with an impassive looking Rebekah, Kol appears to be playing darts with three women who barely look eighteen, and Niklaus can't keep his eyes off the pretty Caroline."

My eyes follow his and stop on Klaus, who is scowling at Caroline and Tyler as they lean into each other's bodies.

"She'll never want him," I say. "Caroline loves Tyler. She has no interest in your brother." Honestly, I would feel bad for the guy if his obsession with her wasn't so disturbing. No one should have to feel the pain of unrequited love.

"Maybe," Elijah thoughtfully replies, "but sometimes people can feel things for others that they never want or expect. Besides, Niklaus has a reputation for being unstoppable when he wants something. If he has his way, your friend will see him in a new light sooner rather than later."

"If Caroline doesn't want to see another side of Klaus, then she'll go out of her way to make sure that she doesn't see it. She's very stubborn."

The corners of Elijah's mouth quirk upwards. "Then their battle of wills shall be very interesting, indeed."

* * *

><p>ht tp: /w w w .yo utub e. com/watch?v=Dn8-4tjPxD8


	14. Chapter 14

Sunday is busy.

Caroline and I start the day with early morning yoga and a five-mile run around campus. When we return to my apartment, I hop in the shower while Caroline convinces Matt to make the three of us, Bonnie, and Tyler breakfast. Matt's a closeted culinary genius, so I certainly have no issues with this plan.

Besides, Caroline likes to wake Matt up by singing him an original composition entitled "Get Your Ass Out of Bed and Cook Me Breakfast, Bitch."

Matt works his magic in the kitchen and Caroline takes over the bathroom while I turn on my computer and check my email. Random messages litter my inbox, but there's no response from Professor Salvatore about my thesis. I'm slightly disappointed, but I shake off the unnecessary feeling and plan the next week of classes for my undergrad seminar.

Bonnie and Tyler arrive around 11am. The five of us sit down to enjoy Matt's omelettes, French toast, and sweet honey biscuits. Caroline decides that Donovan's Band needs to practice for a little bit, so when we finish eating, we grab our stuff for the day and walk to the bar to rehearse.

The music in our past two performances has been so varied, so Caroline thinks we should stick to the blues rock genre for our September shows. I give my approval – this is _my _music. My fingers melt into the piano keys, and I lose myself in the soul and sadness of B.B. King, Howlin' Wolf, and Muddy Waters for two hours of goodness.

I have so much schoolwork to do today, so I snag a quick lunch from the bar and walk to campus. The weather is pleasant, so I set myself underneath a shady, secluded tree. I open my laptop and check my email again.

Still nothing from Professor Salvatore.

I shouldn't be frustrated, but I am. I want to know what he thinks of my story _now_. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I don't feel better, but I won't let his silence deter me from finishing my work.

I spend the next four hours crafting a story about a boy named Dylan who sees his brother - who just happens to be a supervillain - murdered in front of him. Yes, I'm still harping on the superpower idea, but I'm more concerned about the relationship between the two siblings. It's not the best thing I've ever written, but it'll do for class tomorrow. I email the story to my peers for review, stifle another grumble when I don't see a Professor Salvatore message in my inbox, pack up my stuff, and walk home.

I drop my things off in my apartment and immediately head back to Donovan's. A nagging inner voice of me is still upset about Professor Salvatore's silence. I need a distraction.

I need good beer and my piano.

Donovan's Sunday crowd is light but not nonexistent. I grab a beer from Matt – Sweetwater Blue, because I have a craving for blueberries – sit behind my beloved piano, and play, play, play my bluesy heart and soul and frustrations out to an appreciative crowd for a therapeutic three hours.

I help Matt close Donovan's and we walk home together. I cagily eye my computer when I head into my bedroom. I don't want to check my email...again...but in the off-chance that Professor Salvatore emailed me, I don't want to ignore him until tomorrow morning...

I roll my eyes at myself. A professor shouldn't have this much influence over me. I _never_ feel this angsty when I work with Alaric.

With a resigned sigh, I open Outlook. My eyes widen when I see a bolded message from Professor Salvatore:

_**From: Damon Salvatore **_

_**To: Elena Gilbert **_

_**Sent: Sun 09/09/2012 9:57 PM**_

_**Subject: Re: MFA Thesis**_

_**Miss Gilbert,**_

_**I have several questions and suggestions regarding your thesis that I believe will be best relayed in person. My office hours tomorrow are from 2:30 – 4:30pm. Please stop by during those hours.**_

_**DGS**_

My eyes narrow as I read his email once, twice, then a third and final time. He could have at least _asked_ if I'm available during that time. My fiction seminar ends at four, and by the time I travel across campus to McKenna, it'll be at least 4:10. That doesn't leave us a lot of time to thoroughly discuss his "several questions and suggestions."

I'm tempted to reply and ask him to pick another time. I have the strongest, most irrational desire to inconvenience this man, but I want to act professionally, so I send him a courteous reply:

_**From: Elena Gilbert **_

_**To: Damon Salvatore **_

_**Sent: Sun 09/09/2012 11:18 PM**_

_**Subject: Re: MFA Thesis**_

_**Professor Salvatore,**_

_**Thank you for taking the time to review my thesis. I have class tomorrow from 1-4, so I will come to your office as soon as my seminar ends. **_

_**Thanks,**_

_**Elena**_

A single question presses my mind as I fall into bed that night...

What does the G in DGS stand for?


	15. Chapter 15

Monday _sucks_.

The students in my undergrad seminar don't complete the reading I assigned them last week. My peers in my fiction seminar call my super-story about Dylan"unoriginal" and "trite." That same fiction seminar lets out ten minutes late and cuts into my meeting time with Professor Salvatore, a meeting I feel anxious about all day. By the time I sprint across campus and huff it to the top of McKenna, I am in the foulest of foul moods and just want to get this meeting over with so I can go to Donovan's and unwind from the day's stress.

I inhale deeply and knock on Professor Salvatore's door. It is cracked open, and he calls for me to come in.

His voice sounds like oral cashmere. It's surprisingly comforting.

I slowly push his door open and step into his office. He is seated behind his desk, a red pen in hand as he writes comments on what I assume is a student paper. When he makes his last mark on the assignment, he sets his pen down, files the paper in a manila folder, and looks up at me.

"Please have a seat, Miss Gilbert," he says, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. I do as he says. As he reaches into a black leather briefcase resting near the floor of his desk, my eyes look around the small room.

I like his office. The framed diplomas, sleek computer, and imposing mahogany desk give the space a professional feel, but the entire wall behind me is lined with filled bookshelves, and a small, cream colored couch sits atop a worn Persian rug. The room is a history buff's haven, thoroughly academic, warm, and comforting, and I decide right here and now that when I get my own office, it's going to be very similar to this one.

My eyes drift to the diplomas hanging behind Professor Salvatore's head. "Giuseppe," I murmur, reading the name on the certificate paper. Professor Salvatore looks confused.

"Excuse me?"

"You signed your email DGS and I didn't know what the G stood for," I explain, gesturing to his Ph.D. diploma from the University of Virginia. "Damon Giuseppe Salvatore."

A brusque laugh bursts from Professor Salvatore's lips. "Giuseppe's my father," he says, running a hand through his unruly black hair. His words are clipped; it's impossible _not_ to notice the strain in his voice. I wait to see if he wants to elaborate, but he abruptly changes the subject.

"Why are you writing about two brothers?" he asks, looking closely at me. He doesn't say anything else, just surveys me with his blue eyes, and I have never felt more on the spot than I do right now.

"My favorite book is John Steinbeck's _East of Eden_," I cautiously say, trying not to shrink under Professor Salvatore's cool stare. "I love its theme of free choice and how everyone has the opportunity to choose their morality. The novel's portrayal of family also fascinates me, specifically the relationships between fathers, sons, and brothers. It amazes me how Cyrus and Adam's rejection of one of their sons has such a monumental impact on the way the brothers perceive themselves and each other."

I take a deep breath. "The roundabout answer to your question is that I want to transplant those concepts of paternal rejection, sibling rivalry, and choice into a story set during the Civil War because that era reflects similar themes."

"The North is the favored child," Professor Salvatore mutters, appearing lost in thought. He is quiet for several moments before he speaks.

"My relationships with my father and brother are similarly complicated..."

* * *

><p><strong>Huge thanks to Jenn (ElvishGrrl) for helping me with this one.<strong>

**Thank you to everyone who has read, favorited, and reviewed this story. I'm so happy that you're joining me on this ride. I know there aren't a lot of chapters in this update (I've devoted the majority of my recent writing time to updating _Birthmark_), but if you have the time I would LOVE to hear from you in a review or PM!**

**Enjoy the rest of your Wednesday!**


	16. Chapter 16

I watch the lump in Professor Salvatore's throat bob as his voice trails off. A crease forms in the middle of his forehead, a sure sign of the cranks and turns of the revolving wheels in his head as he chooses the right words to say. I get the impression that he likes to be just as careful with his words as I am. If my assumption is true, I respect him all the more for his frugality. Words shouldn't be wasted, especially ones that speak of a difficult relationship with one's family.

"...but that's an irrelevant observation," he eventually says, staring at me with a strangely defiant expression on his face. I feel my blood boil at the blasé way he changes the subject.

The words slip from my mouth before I can stop them. "I don't think your family history is irrelevant to my thesis, Professor Salvatore."

His stare chills me. "And I don't think my family history is any of your business, _Miss _Gilbert."

"It is if it affects the way you respond to the way I've written Joseph, James, and Stephen's relationship!" I shoot back, my voice a pitch higher than necessary. "If you're going to judge this story more harshly because the events in it remind you of those from your own life, I think I have a right to know."

"Funny thing, Miss Gilbert, I don't recall ever saying _anything_ about _judging_ your story."

His voice drips with sarcasm and disdain, and I clench my fists into balls beneath his desk to keep from clocking him in his pretty face...despite the fact that yes, I may have accused him of doing something that he didn't do. "Now that you've brought up the subject, let me tell you what I _actually _think of you and your story. I think that you are an incredible writer. I think that your descriptions of the period clothing and battle scenes are some of the most accurate ones that I've ever read in Civil War literature. Your characters are compelling and intricately flawed; your plot keeps me turning the pages. However, speaking from the personal experience of having a father who resents my existence and a younger brother whom Giuseppe dearest considers God's gift to mankind, I can tell you right now that the relationship between the Whitmore brothers is completely inaccurate given their specific situation. Not only are they fighting together in the Civil War, but they have to do so knowing that they're also fighting for Joseph's approval and the love of the same woman. Those brothers are not on the same team, Elena, and you're acting as if they can just forget all of their struggles because they're going off to war together. Besides, any relationship that James is a part of is going to automatically be strained. The guy is so self-loathing because he's allowed himself to be convinced that he's not good enough for anyone—"

Professor Salvatore abruptly cuts himself off before his comments grow any louder. I struggle to keep my mouth from dropping to the floor. He _gets_ James's character. Heck, he knows James Whitmore better than I do, and I've spent the past year developing him. I'm impressed at how quickly he understands the character's emotions after only receiving the story this past weekend, but as I watch his upper body shake, I wonder just how closely he relates to James's unhappiness.

I don't know how to make Professor Salvatore feel better, but I want to try.

"Professor Salvatore?"

"Yes, Miss Gilbert?" His words are clipped.

I take a deep breath. "I think that James is good enough for the people who matter."

I shyly meet his eyes and sit still as his stare probes mine. I don't know what he searches for, nor do I think the answer lies in my muddy brown eyes, but if this is what it takes to comfort him, then so be it.

He finally speaks, his words a dagger to my compassionate heart. "Let's hope you're not the only one who feels this way."


	17. Chapter 17

The rest of my meeting with Professor Salvatore is calm and fruitful after our little confrontation. He points out the parts of my novel that he really enjoys. He notices plot elements and character quirks that I am not aware I've included. He gently corrects the historical inaccuracies I have accidentally written into the text. Most importantly, he says what he thinks I should alter or expand in the story and gives me his reasoning behind these requested changes. Who knew that Professor Salvatore would be such a helpful critic? His suggestions for making the story richer with detail and meaning are all so thoughtfully given. Sometimes I agree with his ideas and sometimes I think he's missing the point of what the story is trying to convey, but we are able to discuss all of our differing opinions in a friendly and professional manner. I realize that I really like talking to Professor Salvatore – when we're not at each other's throats, that is – and I am sure that he's going to be an invaluable resource as I finish writing my thesis.

Professor Salvatore is in the midst of an animated retelling of how several hungry women essentially mugged Jefferson Davis - yes, _mugged_ the President of the Confederacy – when I hear the muffled beep of my phone in my bag. Professor Salvatore abruptly stops his story and looks pointedly at me. "Was that your phone?"

I flush underneath his stare, embarrassed that I forgot to turn it on silence before I entered the meeting. "Yes…sorry about that," I stammer, digging my hand into my bag in search for the offending device. "I forgot to turn it off before I came here." I finally fish my phone out of my bag and look at the screen.

It's Bonnie.

She can wait.

I hastily place the phone back on top of my bag. Professor Salvatore raises an eyebrow at me. "Aren't you going to read it?"

"It's just Bonnie." When I realize that answer isn't enough of an explanation for Professor Salvatore, I elaborate on it. "She'll call me if it's really important."

"I see." He leans back in his chair as he regards me, his head tilted to the side. "Is she one of the other two women in your band?"

"Yes, Bonnie's the drummer." As I say her name, my phone buzzes again with another of her texts. I decide not to read it and look back up at Professor Salvatore. "Caroline's the lead singer."

"And the other two?"

"Tyler on lead guitar and Matt on bass."

"And you on piano," he concludes, watching me closely. "How long have you played?"

"For twenty years," I say, my voice growing wistful. "My mom played piano. I wanted to be just like her, so I begged her to give me lessons. She taught me how to play 'Hot Cross Buns' on my fourth birthday, and I've never looked back."

A concerned expression crosses Professor Salvatore's face. "You said she _played_ piano. Did she stop?"

"You could say that." I brace myself for what I am about to say. "My parents died in a car accident when I was sixteen years old. My brother Jeremy and I lived with our Aunt Jenna until we both left for school." I exhale slowly. Saying those words will always hurt no matter how much time passes.

Professor Salvatore regards me with consoling eyes. "I'm so sorry, Elena." He pauses for a moment. "My mother died giving birth to my brother, so I know how much it hurts to lose a parent."

We sit together in quiet reflection, but the silence is not uncomfortable. I feel a kinship to Professor Salvatore in this moment of mutual loss. I'm certainly not going to come weeping to him over my dead parents – that ship sailed a _long_ time ago – but it's nice to know that there's someone else in my life who just _gets_ how much it sucks to not have a parent around.

The silence breaks as Ozzy Osbourne's scream screeches from my phone. Professor Salvatore leaps out of his seat in comic fashion and clutches his heart. "What the hell is that God-awful noise?"

I hold up my phone and wave the screen in his direction, resisting the urge to laugh at how rattled he is by a simple ringtone. "Bonnie. She's a metalhead."

A wry grin crosses his face as he grasps his desk as if it were a lifeline. "I guess whatever she was texting you about _was_ important."

* * *

><p><strong>Hello, all! I've been away writing a final paper for the past month, hence the drought in new chapters. I think it's fairly obvious by now that I can't stick to a posting schedule, so from now on I'm going to post all future chapters to this story as I finish them and not wait to publish on my designated "posting day." I really wish that I could be more consistent for you guys, but my life refuses to allow me the luxury of writing time. With that being said, I hope to have another chapter of this story for you guys by the end of the night.<br>**

**Thank you for all of your reviews and other notifications that you're reading my stories. I'm fully aware that this is a slow burn, but if you stick with me long enough to set everything up, I promise you that the payoff will be worth it. Hope to hear from you soon!  
><strong>

**P.S: A week from today I'll be on a plane to visit my sister in Buenos Aires, Argentina. If any of you live in or have ever been to the city, drop me a line with the places I absolutely must go while I'm down there!  
><strong>


	18. Chapter 18

I press the green button on my phone and hold it up to my ear. "Bonnie, I'm in a meeting. Can I call you back when I'm finished here?"

"Sure, no problem, Gilbert…Hey, when you're done with that whole meeting thing, can you swing by the hospital and pick me up?"

"You're in the hospital _again_?" I laugh, startling Professor Salvatore with my outburst. I leap into action, clenching my phone between my cheek and my shoulder as I rapidly gather the papers I have scattered across Professor Salvatore's desk. "What did you do this time?"

"Same old, same old, Gilbert, just got a little too close to the fire." She sounds so calm about the whole experience. I don't know how anyone can be calm when they always receive chemical burns on the job.

I stuff everything into my bag as neatly as possible. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"Don't tell Caroline." As Bonnie hangs up, I can't help but roll my eyes at her order. The first time she burned her left hand on the job, she asked Caroline to pick her up from the hospital. Caroline, of course, freaked out – first over Bonnie's wellbeing, then over the assumption that Bonnie couldn't drum in any of our shows until her hands healed. When Caroline brought a replacement drummer to our gig that weekend, Bonnie threatened to shove a drumstick up both of their behinds (she said it more colorfully than that), made the replacement drummer cry, and then pulled a Rick Allen and killed it as a one-armed drummer for the rest of the month.

Needless to say, I am now Bonnie's designated emergency contact.

Professor Salvatore's voice breaks through my thoughts. "What happened?"

His concern is oddly endearing, but I wave it off. "Bonnie's a chemical lab technician and she burned herself again at work. I've got to go pick her up. I'm sorry that our meeting has to end so abruptly."

I think I see a flicker of disappointment flash in Professor Salvatore's eyes, but it is gone before I can question it too closely. He looks down at the silver watch that hugs his wrist and frowns. "Shit, I've got to go."

"What time is it?"

"Almost six."

"6:00!" _That's ninety minutes after the end of his office hours. _"Professor Salvatore, I am so sorry if I've kept you from anything. I didn't realize how late it'd gotten—"

"No worries, Miss Gilbert," he says, cutting me off with a shrug of his shoulders. "The time was well spent. We got a lot accomplished today."

I sling my bag over my shoulder. He walks me to his door and opens it for me.

"Does this time work for you next week?"

I shake my head. "I've got class until 4, and I feel bad that I've wasted so much of your free time today."

"Our time together wasn't wasted, Miss Gilbert," Professor Salvatore insists. His sharp expression softens as he leans against the door. "If I'm keeping you from other things at this time, please tell me, but I liked ending my day with you and your thesis, and I'd like that to be a recurring event on Mondays."

I regard him closely. "You're sure that you don't mind? Because I can meet at this time, but if it bothers you—"

"It doesn't." He crosses his arms. "So, how about you email me your thesis with the revised changes and a new chapter by Sunday morning, and we'll meet back here as soon as your class lets out on Monday. Sound good?"

"Yes."

"Sounds good to me too. I'll see you in a week, Miss Gilbert. I hope your friend feels better."

And with that, I give him my thanks before I walk quickly down the McKenna stairs.

It appears that I'll be spending my Monday evenings with Professor Salvatore this semester.


	19. Chapter 19

Later in the week, Bonnie shows up at band practice with her left hand completely wrapped in white gauze.

Caroline just might have a nervous breakdown.

Matt and Tyler, however, find Bonnie's "Hulk-hand" the funniest thing since I don't know what, and make "Bonnie SMASH!" jokes all night.

_Boys_.

As always, Bonnie and her power arm are drumming perfection, and when we pound our last note for the evening, we are all seriously amped for our Saturday show and the return of "Single-Stick Bennett." Tyler even manages to convince Bonnie to let him put his artistic training to good use and draw on her gauze with Sharpie markers.

Needless to say, her gauze mitt is now colored to resemble the world's favorite green Avenger.

The rest of my week flashes by me. I am consumed by thesis revisions for my Monday meeting with Professor Salvatore. It's exhausting to make quality changes to a two-hundred page document in addition to writing a new chapter, and as I walk into Donovan's on Saturday night, I am cranky and burnt-out and just want to play away the nuisance of the editing process.

"You sure you're feeling up to this?" Matt asks as he slides me a bottle of Red Brick Porter. "You've got bags under your eyes, Lena."

"I'm fine, Matty, I promise." I tip the bottle against my lips and feel the liquid slide down my throat. It is a bucket of cold water tossed over the fire that is my headache, effectively dousing the licks and cracks of the proverbial flaming thesis.

Flaming thesis is _so_ a proverb.

We join our friends on stage. Tyler checks the dials on the amplifiers while Caroline fusses over Bonnie and her one arm. Bonnie rolls her eyes at Caroline and throws her hands in the air, knocking her cymbal with her Hulkified hand in the process. Matt and I exchange amused glances. Just like that, the stress of my week dissolves, and I settle behind my piano with a smile on my face.

I drape my fingers over the black and white keys and press down on them. The sound of the chord fills the bar. I hold the notes for several seconds before I move my fingers up and down the instrument in a bluesy warm-up. The twitter of the crowd fades to the background as the earnestness of the music laps over me like broken waves over sand.

"Elena!"

I jump out of my trance and look at Matt. "What?" I demand, slightly peeved that he penetrated my zone.

He leans his head towards the crowd. "Alaric's here."

I swivel on my bench and see Alaric weave his way through the crowd to a table in the corner of the bar...followed by none other than Professor Salvatore.

Yipes.

"Wow," Caroline breathes. "Who's the hottie with Alaric?"

"Hey!"

"Hush, Tyler," she barks, her eyes glued to Professor Salvatore's form. He's dressed casually tonight in dark jeans and a black t-shirt.

Casual looks good on Professor Salvatore.

"Elena, do you know him?" Caroline demands. I take another look at Professor Salvatore before I face her.

"He's the new history professor I told you about."

She pouts. "None of my history professors ever looked like _that_. Wait, is he the one you wanted to look over your story? Are you going to have _regular meetings_ with him all semester?"

I narrow my eyes at her, not liking the direction of her questions. "Your point?"

Her eyes get this dreamy look to them that is obviously the result of her little trip to Professor Salvatore la-la land. "Consider me jealous."

"Hey!"

Tyler's outburst yanks Caroline back to reality. She smoothes her hands over her hair. "Okay, let's put on a show!"

As we jump into our first song, I peek over at Alaric and Professor Salvatore's table. Alaric meets my eyes and gives me a thumbs up that is adorably awkward and so him. My gaze drifts over to Professor Salvatore, who is watching me with an indecipherable expression on his face. I offer him a tentative smile that does nothing to combat the sudden nerves that gnaw at my stomach. When he realizes that I'm smiling at him, he returns it with a small one of his own.

It's a nice smile. He should use it more often. Maybe Alaric can help him to loosen up.

I turn back to my piano and play the opening notes of Muddy Waters' 'I Got My Mojo Working.' Hopefully my piano-playing reflects that concept tonight.


	20. Chapter 20

Caroline throws everyone in the bar for a loop when we stop playing for our standard mid-show break.

"You've been such an amazing audience," she says, beaming her sunshine smile at the entire room. "So to thank you for being so great, Elena and I are going to put on a little two-person show for you all right now."

Excuse me?

Elena is going to _what_?

The crowd whoops at Caroline's announcement. I plaster on a smile to keep my shock from appearing on my face. I crook a finger at Caroline and beckon her towards me. "What the hell, Caroline?"

She tries to look innocent, but I've known her long enough to recognize that a devious plan is brewing in her brain. "I just thought it'd be nice to focus on the piano for a change."

My eyes narrow at her. "Come on, Caroline. What's the real reason behind this impromptu change?"

She doesn't say anything, but her eyes drift to the left. My gaze follows her...and settles on Alaric and Professor Salvatore's table. Alaric speaks to Professor Salvatore, who nods and takes a short drink from his glass of what looks like bourbon.

"Really?" I roll my eyes. "You want to show off for Professor Salvatore?"

Caroline's mouth opens wide. "Elena, I've been trying to get his attention all night—"

"—he's my _professor_, Caroline—"

"—but he's been staring at you the entire time!"

It is now my mouth's turn to open wide. I glance over to Professor Salvatore, positive that what she says can't be true, but as soon as my eyes settle on him, he looks up at me, regarding me with a stare that is more curious than distant. I acknowledge him with a small smile before turning back to Caroline, who smirks at me, satisfied to have made her point.

"I couldn't get his attention if I threw all of my tricks at him, so let's show your sexy professor what you can do, okay? Just play what you want and I'll go along with it."

I know better than to argue with Caroline when she gets one of her ideas, so I shrug my shoulders. Besides, what's the worst that could happen if Professor Salvatore finds out that I'm a good piano player? It's not like I'm trying to hide that fact. It's also not like I'm giving him a private performance. The entire room is packed and there are people watching us through the front window. He is just one face in a crowd. "Okay, let's get this over with."

Her blue eyes beam with excitement as she tugs a worn bar stool next to my piano and sits down on it. The stage lights dim. The bar hushes. Single spotlights illuminate Caroline, myself, and my piano. The blood in my veins hums with nervous energy.

I close my eyes, hover my fingers over the piano keys, and gently press down, letting the opening notes of "Dear Prudence" fill the beer-scented bar air.


	21. Chapter 21

_Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?_

_Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day_

Caroline's sugar-sweet voice trills delicately as my hands move innately across my instrument.

_The sun is up, the sky is blue_

_It's beautiful and so are you_

_Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?_

There is nothing but the music, nothing but the whimsy and escape of this song that filters its way into my heart and dissolves the strain that presses upon it. I feel lighter, freer with every reverent brush of my fingertips against the piano keys. The crackling energy of the room's undivided attention pushes me further into my musical cocoon, and my eyes stay closed as my fingers drift from one song into another.

_Nightswimming deserves a quiet night_

A Mona Lisa smile quirks at my lips as I realize the music that my hands and heart have chosen to play. R.E.M.'s piano riff, simple and haunting, repeats beneath my fingertips, and I melt into the nostalgic tone of Caroline's voice as I dream of summer nights and moonlight and of innocence that was lost long ago.

_I'm not sure all these people understand_

_It's not like years ago_

_The fear of getting caught_

_Of recklessness and water_

_They cannot see me naked_

_These things, they go away_

_Replaced by everyday_

Caroline and I are sirens, and Donovan's patrons are captivated by our songs. They are silent as we cast our magic over the bar, leaving no one untouched by our song spells. I exhale slowly as the music ends, pausing for just a moment before I begin the final song.

_Love writes a letter and sends it to Hate_

'_My vacation's ending, I'm coming home late._

_The weather was fine and the ocean was great_

_And I can't wait to see you again.'_

I mouth the Avett Brothers' words along with Caroline as she sings them, feeling the familiar burn of lyrics being permanently etched onto my heart.

_Hate reads the letter and throws it away_

'_No one here cares if you go or you stay._

_I barely even noticed that you were away._

_I'll see you or I won't, whatever.'_

The piano music grows slightly hopeful as Caroline and I move into the song's last stanza. I continue to recite the words to keep myself from choking up at the emotions of the lyrics.

_Hate stumbles forward and leans in the door_

_Weary head hung and eyes to the floor_

_He says 'Love, I'm sorry,' and she says, 'What for?_

_I'm yours and that's it, whatever.'_

'_I should not have been gone for so long._

_I'm yours and that's it, forever._

_You're mine and that's it, forever.'_

I exhale slowly and open my eyes. Caroline lowers the microphone from her house and takes a similar breath. Our eyes meet and reflect the deep, musical sisterhood we feel for each other. She smiles and I smile, and we look out at our audience together.

They erupt in applause. Donovan's has never reacted this positively to one of our performances. Shock floors me to my piano stool, and Caroline has to tug me off the seat to take a bow. I dip my knees into an awkward curtsy as my eyes search the crowded bar room, reading the faces of the appreciative crowd.

My gaze stops on Alaric and Professor Salvatore's table. They both clap with everyone else, but Professor Salvatore is looking at me with the strangest mixture of fear and respect and distrust and awe. He looks at me as if I have the power to both save and destroy him. I don't know why my music has provoked these staggering responses from him, but the intensity of his stare is so overwhelming that I have to turn away.

He remains in the corner of my vision as Matt, Bonnie, and Tyler rejoin Caroline and I onstage. He quickly brushes something from his eye and leaves a shine of wetness in the trail of his finger. I stifle a gasp as I realize that my and Caroline's music provoked him, the stoic, impregnable Professor Salvatore to shed a _tear_.

Well, that's certainly an interesting addition to the mystery that surrounds him.


	22. Chapter 22

When our gig ends an hour later, Matt and Tyler go to man the bar while Caroline drags Bonnie and I to Alaric and Professor Salvatore's table. She doesn't blink an eye as she shoves a chair between the two of them, falls into it, and offers her hand to Professor Salvatore.

I don't know whether to be impressed or mortified by her tenacity.

"Hi, I'm Caroline Forbes, Elena's best friend and Ric's favorite student who he doesn't actually teach." Alaric chuckles, but Professor Salvatore clearly has no idea what to make of the effervescent, fearless girl who has made herself comfortable at his table in less than fifteen seconds. I hold my breath as Caroline keeps her hand extended, knowing that she won't lower it until Professor Salvatore acknowledges her. He regards her carefully for a moment, then finally grasps her small hand within his larger one.

"Damon. Salvatore," he says, releasing her quickly. Bonnie steals two chairs and positions them across the table from Caroline. She and I sit down as Caroline begins her interrogation.

"So, Damon Salvatore, how do you like Atlanta so far? I hear that you're new around these parts."

"I'm actually a returner to the city," he says, taking a long swig of bourbon. When he doesn't immediately clarify, Alaric steps in for him.

"Damon's family owns the boarding house outside of the city." Caroline jumps on this information.

"So you grew up in Atlanta?"

"Bingo."

"Why'd you leave?"

Professor Salvatore shrugs. "It was time for a change." There is steel behind the nonchalance of his voice that warns us to change the subject. I mentally note that Professor Salvatore's childhood years in Atlanta are on the "discuss with caution" list should the topic ever arise in one of our Monday meetings.

Caroline effortlessly keeps the conversation going. "So, what did you sexy professors think of the show tonight?" I frown as Professor Salvatore blanches at her wildly inappropriate terminology, but Alaric, used to Caroline's endearments, answers her readily.

"You kids just keep getting better and better," he enthuses. "Bonnie, if I didn't see that mitt on your hand I would've sworn that you played with two arms tonight."

Bonnie beams at Alaric's words. "Thanks, Teach."

"And you two," he continues, looking at Caroline and I, "why is this the first night we've received one of those two-person performances? Give us more of those!"

I look shyly down at my beer bottle as Caroline squeals and claps her hands together. "I know, right? It was totally a last minute decision, but I figured that Elena's always hiding behind her piano, and she's so much better than the rest of us but no one ever gets to hear her play, so why not bring the spotlight to her for just a little bit?"

She whirls around to face Professor Salvatore. "Damon, what did _you_ think of Elena's spotlight performance? Wasn't she amazing?"

He looks at me with his bright eyes. I hold his gaze.

"Yeah, she really was."

_Holy compliment, Batman!_

Caroline continues to pepper him with questions as I bask in the glory of a rare Professor Salvatore accolade. "What was your favorite song from tonight? Do you have any song requests for the next time we go acoustic? Or any song requests in general? I'm sure you've noticed that we really can play anything, what with the five of us coming from such different musical backgrounds..."

I stop focusing on Caroline's voice to note the change in Professor Salvatore's expression. The light in his eyes that was there when he agreed that I was "amazing" has been replaced by weight and sadness. Caroline rambles on, completely unaware that his mind is elsewhere. It breaks my heart to see anyone so distressed over something, but, for whatever reason, my heart aches a little more because it's _him_ going through this unknown pain.

"Damon? Professor Salvatore? You okay?"

Caroline snaps him out of his trance. "Peachy."

"So, any song requests for future shows?"

The question visibly discomforts him. "Anything you play will be fine."

"I'm sure there's a favorite song you wouldn't mind hearing us cover."

"Not really."

She presses further. "What about a favorite artist or band?"

Professor Salvatore grows more and more uncomfortable with her questions. "Let it go, Caroline," I hiss, glaring at her to make my point. She looks at me, then over to him, and finally sees that he is clearly bothered by this topic of conversation. As she opens her mouth to say something else, she closes it just as abruptly and looks over to the bar.

"I'm going to go see what our boys are up to. Coming, Bonnie?"

She gives Caroline a strange look but allows herself to be pulled to her feet. "Uh, sure."

Ric stands up with them. "I'm going with you girls. I need to talk Tyler into giving me some extra training sessions this semester. Damon, Elena, you want anything from the bar?"

Professor Salvatore gives his half-filled bourbon glass a gentle shake. "I'm good." I echo his response. As he and Bonnie head toward the bar, Caroline smirks at me as if she were a cat who just received twenty canaries handed to her on a silver platter. I realize that the only people still seated are myself and Professor Salvatore.

It's funny how things work out that way.

Still smirking, Caroline places her hand on his shoulder. "Don't be a stranger around here, Damon Salvatore." He is obviously flustered by her forwardness, but she flounces away before he can say anything.

He exhales loudly. "Your friend is a piece of work."

I grimace. I know that he speaks the truth, but Caroline's one of my best friends. I can't let him think too negatively of her. "I know that Caroline can come across as a little overbearing, but she's a really good friend and she likes to make new ones."

"Is that what she was doing when she was asking me all of those questions?" he asks, taking a drink of bourbon. "Isn't it a little weird for students to be friends with professors?"

"Alaric and I consider each other friends. Is that weird?"

"I don't know if I could ever think of a student that way. There's too much of an age gap for me to have anything common with one."

_Ouch_. "Maybe you should think of us as your future colleagues instead," I lamely offer, nursing my wounds. "Besides, it's not like you're _that_ many years older than us."

His eyes focus sharply on me. "How old are you, Miss Gilbert?" 

"Twenty-four."

He considers my answer. He looks like he is about to say something significant, but he decides against it. "Well, thanks for saving me from Blondie's questions back there."

"No problem."

We are quiet for several moments. When he finally speaks, his voice is so soft that I can barely hear it. "It's not like I would have been much help in the song request department anyway."

My brows narrow. "What do you mean?"

He frowns at his glass and swirls the liquid around the rim. "Miss Gilbert, I have purposely avoided listening to any kind of music since I was seven years old."


	23. Chapter 23

My mouth drops open as my infinite thoughts collide with one another in my head. _Did Professor Salvatore really just say…no, I must have misheard him…_ _why_?

"Miss Gilbert?"

I jump at the sound of Professor Salvatore's voice. "Yes?"

He eyes me warily. "You're staring at me like I've just sprouted two extra heads and turned green." He glances down at his forearm, almost as if to reassure us both that his skin is still lightly tanned. "I just don't like music. It's not a big deal."

"_Everybody_ likes music," I protest. "And even if someone doesn't want to listen to music all of the time, that person won't go out of their way to avoid it."

He shrugs. "I do."

"But you're a history professor," I say, immediately realizing how stupid I sound by pointing out the obvious. The incredulous look Professor Salvatore exudes serves to further cement my idiocy. "Music is a part of what defines history," I elaborate. "How can you be a history professor and not have any interest in the music that represents each era?"

"Because I have no desire to waste my time researching something as trite and irrelevant as _music_, Miss Gilbert." The glare in Professor Salvatore's eyes and the sneer in his voice are cold enough to freeze every inch of my bloodstream. I push the hurt that accompanies his blatant insult of music – and my pursuit of it – aside and focus on the desperation behind his words. He wants so badly to believe what he's saying, but he can't. He's deflecting. Matt and I live together; I know _all_ about the art of male deflection. It usually involves a whole lot of misplaced anger to avoid talking about what's really bothering them. The truth always comes out with several drinks and a lot of patience.

I don't say a word as I watch Professor Salvatore. He scowls at the table, takes a long drink of bourbon, then scowls some more. I wonder if he realizes how clearly his face displays his inner emotions. Right now his features are contorted into a pained expression that reflects a lifetime's worth of disappointment and hurt.

I recall the conversation I had with him in his office on Monday afternoon in my attempt to get to the bottom of his outburst. I remember talking about Donovan's Band and how I play the piano because of Mom, and Professor Salvatore told me that his mother died giving birth to his younger brother.

Wait.

If I were Caroline, I'd pry. I'd continue to press to get the information I want, and I'd feel no remorse for making Professor Salvatore talk about something that clearly upsets him. However, I am not Caroline. I wait for people to come to me with the desire to purge their innermost secrets, and as they do so I listen to them quietly. I do not push. I respect the privacy of people's thoughts.

Right now, in this exact moment with Professor Salvatore, I can't stop the invasive queries that force their way through my lips.

"How old were you when your mother died?" I ask, careful to keep my voice soft and nurturing. I want him to trust me. I want to know what makes this man tick and why he has gone out of his way to avoid music for so long. I want to know what causes the sadness to linger behind his eyes whenever his family is mentioned.

Professor Salvatore flinches at my question. He doesn't speak at first, just sits and stares at his empty glass as if he could refill it with a mere look alone. His hands clench into fists on the table as his jaw juts out defiantly. I know he doesn't want to answer me, and I don't think he is going to. As I am about to look to my friends at the bar, he speaks, his voice so hard and grief-stricken that I have to lean in to hear him.

"Guess."

That one word confirms everything. I give him several moments before I ask the question that will burn us both.

"Did she like music?"

He flinches again, as if my words have the power of a wasp's sting and I'm attacking him over and over again with memories he has no desire to relive. My stomach knots itself at my impudence. Who do I think I am, that I can just ask him about such personal things? How dare I assume that he'd even consider opening up to me, that there is even the slightest possibility that he would talk to me about his childhood? I am so angry at myself for my selfishness. Just because I want to know Professor Salvatore better doesn't mean he wants the same from me.

"She loved it," he abruptly says, staring straight ahead at a cracked brick on the wall. "She didn't play an instrument, but she always played records or danced along to the radio when she did housework or cooked dinner. I remember her calling me in from outside to taste her spaghetti sauce, and when I ran in I always found her swaying her hips to whatever song played at the time. She was pretty, but I remember her being positively radiant when she surrounded herself with music."

He pauses for a moment and then launches back into his story. "And then she died in the hospital, and the music died along with her. My father couldn't bear to hear anything that reminded him of her. He banned music from our house, sold all of her records and smashed our radios and everything. I don't think he realized that I needed that music to feel close to her…or maybe he did realize it but thought I'd move on faster if there weren't any traces of her in our lives." He snorts. "I look exactly like her, so it's not like he wouldn't be constantly reminded of her each day every time he saw me. He distanced himself from me. If he wasn't at work, he was with the baby. I quickly learned to fend for myself."

I imagine a seven year old boy with black hair and blue eyes desperately wanting his father's love after such a large tragedy and not receiving it because he shares similar features to his beloved mother. I restrain my tears. Professor Salvatore doesn't need them.

"Do you want to know the best part of this story, Miss Gilbert?" he asks. I nod. I have the strongest feeling that his definition of "best" isn't the way that I'd define the word, but I am too wrapped up in his tale to deny us both the ending, no matter how painful it will surely be.

"It turns out that my baby brother, for whom Mom sacrificed her life to bring into this world, is a musical prodigy." My eyes widen. He laughs bitterly. "I know, right? One of the nuns who ran his preschool sat him behind the church piano for the hell of it, and by the time our nanny picked him up at the end of the day, he'd mastered every song in the whole damn hymnal. That was when he was _two_. By the time he started kindergarten, he could play classical compositions better than the professionals. First grade? He learned the trumpet. Third grade? He wrote his own songs while perfecting the violin and every other string instrument known to mankind. When he was supposed to be in middle school, he was out earning his doctorate in Music Performance from the Peabody Conservatory while I worked my ass off at home to be my high school class valedictorian in the off chance that maybe, just maybe, Dad would be as proud of me as he was his eleven year old son with the Ph.D. He wasn't, of course. After all, I wasn't anything special. Never was, never will be."

"I lost both of my parents to my brother the day he came into this world, Miss Gilbert," Professor Salvatore says as he stands to his feet. He pushes his chair back so quickly that it shrieks against the bar floor. "Music only reminds me of that loss. It's why I avoid it whenever possible."

"Except for tonight," I whisper. He frowns.

"Except for tonight." He pushes his chair into the table. "I'll see you on Monday."

He strides out of Donovan's. I remain at the empty table. My heart continues to ache for that seven year old boy.


	24. Chapter 24

I sit in the chair in front of Professor Salvatore's desk and try to pay attention to what he's saying about my thesis revisions, but it's no use. I might as well be listening to Charlie Brown's grandmother talk about particle theory, because my brain is processing everything that leaves his mouth as _wah wahhh wah wah wahhhmp_. I can't make sense of anything that he says. I'm distracted.

I've been distracted ever since our conversation on Saturday night.

I'm just as distracted by the two square-sized envelopes that sit inside of my bag and itch to be taken out. I placed them in there before I went to bed last night.

I hope he likes them.

"Miss Gilbert?"

I jump at the sound of the first words he's said since I stepped into his office that don't sound like complete gibberish. My head snaps up faster than a reprimanded schoolgirl's, and I give Professor Salvatore what I hope is an apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry, what were you saying?"

His eyes narrow. "Is there something you'd rather be doing right now? Because I can think of several other ways that my time would be more productively spent if you're not going to contribute to this conversation about _your_ thesis." The annoyance is loud and clear in his voice. I lower my head, properly chastised.

"No, sir."

He straightens in his chair and surveys me carefully. "In that case, would you care to enlighten me as to why you've altered the presentation of James Whitmore's character so drastically since the last draft I read? He's much more…developed…this time around."

"Well, I…" I stammer, attempting to stall my response. I don't really want to admit to Professor Salvatore that I've decided to use him as my real-life inspiration for James Whitmore. Their similar circumstances of growing up without a mother and feeling neglected by their father are impossible to ignore. Besides, Professor Salvatore told me last week that I needed to add more strain and self-loathing to all of James' interactions with people. I got to experience those qualities firsthand on Saturday night.

"I guess you could say that I understand his character a little better now," I finally say, glancing at him from beneath my eyelashes. His eyes widen for a split second. He knows what I've done. I wait for him to protest, to deny the similarities, to make some kind of comment to demand that I leave his personal history out of my story, but he simply shrugs.

"We'll see about that."

He gives me several articles to read about what life was like for the women and children who stayed at home during the Civil War. He settles back in his chair.

"Same time next week?"

I nod and stand, knowing that I am being dismissed. I grab my messenger bag from the floor and set it on my chair. I pull out a folder, neatly place his articles inside, and slide it back into my bag. My finger grazes the corners of the square envelopes. I hesitate. Making them seemed like a nice gesture last night, but now they embody my overstepping of boundaries. It's none of my business if he doesn't want to listen to music. If I give him these envelopes, I'm clearly interfering where I shouldn't be.

Eh, here goes nothing.

"I made you something," I blurt. He looks up from his computer screen, his expression a mixture of surprise and suspicion and curiosity. I reach into my bag, pull out the two envelopes, and hand them to him. "They're CD's," I explain, feeling more and more like I'm on a suicide mission. "The top one has all of the original versions of the songs from our set list on Saturday. I wrote the names of the songs and their artists on the back of the CD jacket."

He stares at the two squares that sit on his desk. "And the other?"

I take a deep breath. "The other contains some of the most popular songs from 1900-1909...with Scott Joplin's _Maple Leaf Rag_ as the one exception; it was copyrighted in 1899, but it's too important to be left out. I wrote those names and artists on the back of the jacket, too." When he doesn't say anything, I rush to explain myself. "Look, I know that you don't like listening to music, and you are entirely justified in that decision. I guess I just thought…actually, I don't know what I was thinking…I guess I thought that if you ever wanted to listen to music again, there's a lot of it out there to wade through, so I figured I'd help you out. Since you're a history professor I thought the best way to categorize the music would be by decade. I know I skipped over a lot of the classical stuff by starting at 1900, but I don't know classical music as well as I know the music after the turn of the century."

He still hasn't said anything…nor has he looked at me. My stomach is tied in knots. I want to bury myself in the sand and not come out for days. Instead of doing that, I keep talking.

"These CDs were a stupid idea. You probably hate them…and me for assuming that you'd even possibly want to listen to them. You can throw them out and we'll never speak of them again," I babble, hurriedly gathering my things. "I'm sorry, I just…I'm sorry." I go to rush out the door when his voice stops me in my tracks.

"I'll see you next Monday, Miss Gilbert."

His voice is void of chastisement, but his expression could say something completely different. I can't bring myself to look back at him and see for myself, so I walk out of his office and close the door behind me. I exhale and try to calm the relentless pounding of my heartbeat.

As I walk down the hallway, I hear the opening notes of _Maple Leaf Rag_ play through his door.


	25. Chapter 25

The next two weeks are a blur of classes, writing additions and revisions, and Donovan's Band performances. It's now October. If I didn't feel the chill in the air or see the leaves on the campus trees start to turn shades of fire, I would be completely unaware of the new month's arrival. The only way I remember the two weeks that have passed is by recalling the various interactions I had with Professor Salvatore during that time.

He reveals small bits about himself every time we talk – whether they're given intentionally or unknowingly, I have no clue – and I consume every one of them with the voraciousness of a starving woman. I learn that he thinks _Gone with the Wind_ is overrated and that he would rather watch a historical movie about ancient Rome than about the Civil War because he doesn't know enough about Roman times to "get pissed off by all of the historical inaccuracies." I learn that his family owns a house on Blue Ridge Lake in northern Georgia and the summers he spent there with his family before he turned seven were "perfect." I learn that he's fluent in Italian and that the only team sport he likes to play is football.

I learn that the more I learn about Professor Salvatore, the more I _want_ to learn about Professor Salvatore. The fact that he's so reserved about himself makes everything that I inadvertently discover about him that much more fascinating. I never knew that I could look forward to Mondays, but simply knowing that I'll get to spend time with Professor Salvatore on those days makes me almost eager to go to school.

_Almost_.

It's the first Monday afternoon in October, so after my seminar ends I walk over to McKenna and hike the stairs to the top floor. I'm in a good mood, so much so that there's a spring in my step as I walk down the hall to Professor Salvatore's office. I'm even whistling Al Jolson's "Swanee", as I've had it stuck in my head since I burned it to Professor Salvatore's 1920's CD this morning. I have no idea what he thinks of the four CDs I've given him so far, and unless he brings them up in conversation, I'm not going to talk about them. Ignoring the issue – and my burning curiosity to know his reaction to the music – is always the better option when it comes to dealing with sensitive topics around Professor Salvatore.

I let myself whistle the entire chorus of "Swanee" before I knock on his door. "Professor Salvatore? It's Elena," I call through the wood. I stand and wait for fifteen seconds. Professor Salvatore doesn't answer. I try knocking again and receive no response. My brow narrows. I know how serious he is about maintaining his office hours, so it surprises me that he's not here. Something unusual must have happened to keep him from our meeting. I have a tattered collection of Flannery O'Connor's short stories in my bag, so I decide to read them while I wait for Professor Salvatore for the next fifteen minutes.

As I start to walk towards a chair in the waiting area, a loud yell sounds from his office.

"—you can't keep doing this, Katherine!"

I freeze in place as Professor Salvatore's voice bellows through the wooden door. The sound of Professor Salvatore's roar is alarming. I've heard him raise his voice only once before, during our first meeting, but the sound I hear now is so much…_sadder_…than the passionate one I heard weeks ago.

It's raw.

Hollow.

A slapdash blend of anger, resentment, and resignation.

Simply knowing that Dr. Pierce is the source of Professor Salvatore's current stress is just one more entry to my list of reasons why I hate her guts. I feel strangely protective of him ever since he told me about his strained relationships with his family, and I'd love to know what Dr. Pierce has done so I can give her the dirtiest looks imaginable the next time I see her. In spite of that, I know that I wouldn't want anyone to hear me arguing with my significant other, so I decide to give Professor Salvatore some privacy. I walk away from his door and sit down in a chair at the other end of the hall that I think is out of hearing range of his office.

It's not.

His voice easily penetrates the door. "No, Katherine, I _don't_ understand… what about your classes? Who's going to cover them?...right, like I know anything about the Bulgarian empire…how is that fair to your students?...maybe if you spent less time adding conferences to your resume and more time in Atlanta, we wouldn't be having this conversation…we've had this planned for weeks…because you're supposed to be my _girlfriend_, that's why…you know what? Fine. Do what you want…I'm sure you are, Katherine…yeah…just let me know when you make up your mind."

The phone slams back into the receiver. My eyes are wide. There is no way I can forget his end of _that_ conversation.

Before I can attempt to process everything I just heard, Professor Salvatore's office door creaks open. I pretend to be engrossed in my book as I watch him out of the corner of my eye. His hair is disheveled and sticks out from his head at all angles. His expression is downcast, weary. He leans against his doorframe, closes his eyes, and exhales a sigh that contains far more hurt than it has the right to hold. He eventually straightens up and looks at me.

"How much of that did you hear?"

I hesitate for a second as I debate whether or not to tell him the truth. I quickly realize that I don't want to be another source of dishonesty in his life. I want him to know he can trust me.

"The doors here are surprisingly thin," I say, avoiding his question and answering it all the same. His shoulders sag. I imagine him as a modern-day Atlas bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

When he finally speaks, he pronounces each of his words as if they are thousand-pound burdens that he struggles to lift off his tongue. "Can we reschedule this meeting for later in the week?"

The rest of my week is crazy-busy, but I'll make the time to meet with him. "Of course."

"When are you available?"

I mentally scan my schedule. "How does Thursday at three sound?" That's technically when I hold my office hours for the class I teach, but I can always move it to another time during the week. No one ever comes to my office hours anyways.

"That's fine," he says, staring at a spot on the floor. I place my book back in my bag and stand up.

"Well, I guess I'll see you then."

"Guess so." His voice is distant. With all of the thoughts that must be clashing in his head, I wonder if he'll remember the change in our meeting time. I decide to send him a subtle reminder email on Wednesday night to help him out. My back faces him as I go to walk to the stairwell.

"Do you ever wish that things in your life were different, Miss Gilbert?"

I stop moving, but I don't turn around. "Sometimes."

He doesn't say anything for the longest time. I'm tempted to glance back at him, but I keep my eyes focused straight ahead. When he finally speaks, his voice is laced with tension.

"She's staying in Prague for another week."

I struggle to keep my voice neutral. "What's in Prague?"

"A conference." He pauses. "Or a colleague. It's always either one or the other. Sometimes she throws a guest lecture into the mix."

"She sounds very…accomplished."

"So she just reminded me." I slowly turn to look at him. He is still staring at that same spot on the floor. The lines on his forehead crinkle and contort, hinting at all of the dark thoughts that he holds captive in his head.

Those thoughts suddenly burst free from his mouth. "She just _goes_ to these things like she doesn't give a damn that she has classes to teach or students who depend on her or, I don't know, a _boyfriend_ who wants to see her more than once every two weeks. Why the fuck is she teaching here if she has no desire to actually _be_ in Atlanta? Of course, she's got the department chair wrapped around her little finger, so she can just tell him that her little escapades to all of these international conferences are good for the university, and he'll believe her because she is just way too goddamn good at manipulating words around to disguise the fact that she's really one of the most selfish people in existence. I hate how she just expects me to teach her classes on top of my own while she's away. It's not like I have my own stuff to do or anything. Nothing I do matters to her, and when I try to tell her that I've got my own stuff to handle and just can't take on her work, she reminds me that _she_ convinced the department chair to hire me and that it really wouldn't kill me to show her some gratitude every now and then. I'd show her my appreciation, but why bother if she's never around to receive it? If I knew that things would be this way, I wouldn't have turned down my other job offers and come back to Atlanta. I thought that being with her would offset all of the bad memories I have of this place, but the fact that she's never around just makes being here that much worse."

His grievances come one after the other, swift and unstoppable and chaotic, reminding me of water exploding through the cracks of a ruptured dam. I stand in place and listen, offering nothing more than an ear to hear all of the struggles that pour from his mouth. My blood boils as I think about all of the crap that Dr. Pierce has put him through. I have the most primal urge to toss her into the wall WWF style, but I'm sure that not even a good body slam or two could squish the selfishness from her.

I want to shoot something. I want to shoot _her_. An idea sparks in my head. It's crazy and random and completely out of the range of what is acceptable for our strict student-teacher relationship, but I have the strongest feeling that this will be the perfect distraction for both of us.

"How do you feel about laser tag?"

His eyes snap up to my face. For the first time this afternoon, I see a flicker of light in them. "Laser tag?"

I nod and try to keep my hands from shaking. "There's a place fifteen minutes from here."

He regards me carefully. "I haven't played laser tag since I was twelve."

"There's something about making bratty middle schoolers cry that is oddly liberating."

"I have a difficult time picturing you make _anyone_ cry, Miss Gilbert."

"Believe me Professor Salvatore, when I play laser tag, anyone who isn't on my team is my _bitch_."

I struggle to keep a straight face when his eyes grow wide with surprise. I cross my arms and raise a challenging eyebrow at him. The next two words that come out of his mouth make me happier than they have any right to do.

"Prove it."


	26. Chapter 26

Professor Salvatore sticks out like a sore thumb when we walk into Laser City. Not only is the man about twenty years older than the average person running around this place, he's also still wearing his professor clothes that make him look like a cross between James Dean and the entire clan of Mumford & Sons. Don't get me wrong, he makes the vest and leather jacket combo look really, _really_ good, but his sharpness is so out of place in this world of tweens who dress like prepubescent gangsters and sluts.

I weave around the hoards of twittering middle schoolers and lead us to the counter. Randy, the regular "laser tag guy" at Laser City, quirks his eyebrow when he sees me approach his register.

"Where's the rest of your team, Ripley?" he asks, giving Professor Salvatore the look-over.

"It's just me and him today, Randy." I dig through my purse for my wallet, but Professor Salvatore hands Randy enough money to cover the both of us for two twenty-minute games. I look up at him. "You sure?"

"Of course."

Randy gives Professor Salvatore his change and exchanges our jackets and my purse for two laser tag vests. We shrug our arms into the holes, fasten the vests over our clothes, and sit in the waiting area amongst three groups of birthday parties. Professor Salvatore nudges my arm. "Why did that guy just call you Ripley?"

I laugh. "I've only ever been here with the band, and one day Matt and Tyler decided that the five of us needed code names to 'infiltrate the enemy base,'" I explain, embellishing with finger quotes. "They christened themselves the McManus twins and then named me Ripley, Caroline – The Bride, and Bonnie – Rambo."

"Any reason they chose those particular names?"

I shrug. "I honestly think that they just chose the first five badass movie characters they could think of. Matt and Tyler even recite the Boondock Saints' creed every time before we enter the arena."

"They take laser tag pretty seriously, huh?"

"At least they don't show up wearing black war paint streaked across their faces like Bonnie does."

We file into the intermediary room with about thirty other kids, the two of us easily towering over everyone else. As the introductory video starts to play, I lean towards him. "What military strategies did they use in the Civil War?"

He looks down at me. "For the North or for the South?"

"Both."

He speaks in a hushed voice as the video drones on. "The North used what they called the Anaconda Plan, which was designed to literally squeeze the South to military death. They surrounded the Confederacy to blockade the Southern port cities, advanced down the Mississippi River to divide the South in two sections, and then moved inwards to hunt down Robert E. Lee. The South opted to remain on the defensive until an opportunity presented itself to launch an offensive attack. Jefferson Davis thought that using such a passive strategy would promote the image that the South was only fighting in self-defense."

The corners of his mouth tilt upwards. "I bet you and your friends have plenty of strategies that you use here. Care to share?"

I pretend to think about his question for several seconds before I shake my head. "No, I don't think so."

The video ends, and Randy walks into the room to administer the distribution of laser guns. Professor Salvatore and I loiter in the back of the crowd that rushes towards him.

Professor Salvatore admonishes me for my refusal to reveal my laser tactics. "That's not very nice of you, Miss Gilbert."

We reach the front of the line. Randy places a gun in each of our hands. Before I enter the laser arena, I whip my head around and flash Professor Salvatore the most impish smile I can muster. It's time to get into character.

"Kicking your ass in that arena also isn't very nice of me, Professor Salvatore, but you'd better start embracing the fact that it's going to happen," I state, watching his eyes grow comically wide before I slip through the curtain and into the blacklit room.

My entire mentality shifts as soon as I step into the laser arena. I am intense and focused; I am the assassin of all assassins. I am the lovechild of Hawkeye, the Terminator, and Jason Bourne. When I find Professor Salvatore – and I do mean when, because finding him is an inevitability – I _will_ take him down.

He's my only target tonight.

Cheesy techno music begins to play, indicating the start of the game. My eyes adjust to the darkness as I slink around the perimeter of the room, making sure to keep the whites of my Chuck shoelaces out of the blacklight as much as possible. I scan the room for Professor Salvatore.

Target acquired.

The silhouette of his height gives him away as he stands against a tall plastic shield. His gun is cocked in front of him and his back is completely exposed. I creep behind him, aim my gun at the laser receptor on the back of his vest, and pull the trigger. The lights on his vest flash red.

Direct hit!

I step and hide behind the nearest barrier, watching as he immediately drops to the floor against his plastic shield. The outline of his head whips back and forth as he tries to discern where the shot came from. I stifle a laugh as I aim my gun at the receptor on his shoulder. I take no prisoners when it comes to laser tag. I pull my trigger again.

Another direct hit!

I wait for three giggling girls to rush past me before I step out of the shadows and into the neon glow. "You're making this too easy on me, Professor Salvatore," I call, grinning when his head twists in my direction. "I feel like I'm shooting fish in a barrel."

"That was you?" he demands, standing to his feet. "I didn't even see you!"

I take advantage of his unprotected stance and shoot him in the stomach again. "Somehow I think that you not seeing me isn't the problem here," I say, pretending to blow smoke off the tip of my gun. "I just think that you're terrible at laser tag and you're making excuses to cover up that little factoid."

"Maybe I want you to believe I'm terrible to disguise the fact that _I'm_ about to destroy _you_, Miss Gilbert. Did you ever consider that possibility?"

I scoff in mock indignation. "Destroy me? Destroy _me_? Professor Salvatore, I'll have you know that I—"

The sudden vibration of my vest cuts me off mid-sentence. I look down at my stomach, then three feet across from me to the gun pointed right at my chest. My eyes drift up to Professor Salvatore, who stands across from me wearing the most boyish, most smug, most challenging, most goddamn _sexy_ smile I have ever seen on a man in my entire life. My breath hitches in my throat at the sight of him illuminated in blue neon, grinning down at me as if he hasn't got a care in the whole world. Holy goodness, the man is stunning when he smiles, and I have the sudden realization that I want him to do it as often as possible.

Of course, while I'm standing there like a gaping idiot, trying to process this new comprehension that is most certainly _not_ a good thing, he shoots me in the stomach again and blows fake smoke off his fake gun in what is definitely a deliberate mockery of the similar stunt I pulled earlier.

"Game on, Miss Gilbert," he says, lifting his eyebrow in challenge before he flees into the safety of the arena. My mouth drops open. He did _not_ just do that.

It is _so_ on.

I run after him, ducking and dodging around the various obstacles in the room in my pursuit, calling out meaningless threats as I draw close to him, aim, shoot, and score. He chases after me, feints around the barriers and lurks amongst the shadows, taunts me when he knows he's got me cornered, takes aim, shoots, and scores. We play and we laugh, we act like six-year-olds; we completely forget that a world exists outside of this arena.

He struts over to me as soon as the lights come on, steals my laser gun, and reads the statistics on its screen. "Eighty-seven points? There's no way you hit me eighty-seven times!"

I swipe his gun out of his hand and smirk when I read his numbers. "Only fifty-five points, Professor Salvatore?" I tease. "I guess that's pretty good, considering how ancient you are compared to the rest of us spry young things."

"Spry? I didn't know that anyone used that word after 1892," he retorts, holding my gun out of reach when I try to grab it from him. "And I had a faulty gun. There's no way you got thirty-two more points than me."

I roll my eyes, making sure he can see the gesture. "If you want to switch guns we can, but it won't do you any good. There's no competing against my natural skills."

"Natural skills? Give me back my gun," he sputters, all but throwing my original gun at me as he snatches his weapon from my fingers. He practically shoves me into the introductory viewing room. "You got lucky, Miss Gilbert. It won't happen again."

Thirty minutes later, we exit the laser tag arena for the second time. I can't keep the smug grin from invading my expression…and Professor Salvatore can't stop the scowl from spreading across his face.

"One hundred and two points…yeah right," he grumbles as we exchange our gear with Randy for our jackets and my purse. Randy bursts out laughing.

"Son, you don't mess with Elena Ripley," he says, shooting me a cheeky wink. I beam at him as I shrug into my coat. I see Professor Salvatore try hard to restrain his smile.

"I'll have to remember that for next time."

_Next time_?

My eyes dart up to his face to discern whether he's serious or not, but his light expression suddenly reverses into solemnity, and he turns away from me as he slips his arms into his jacket. He zips it up and looks at the door.

"Ready to go?"

My inflated sense of cheer deflates like a punctured balloon as I realize that he's going to distance himself from me again. I want to drag him back into the laser arena and coax that smile from him once more, but he's already walking out the door. I wave a hasty goodbye to Randy and run to catch up to him.

We begin our walk back to campus in quiet and make no noise except the crunches of the leaves being squished beneath our feet. My thoughts are a myriad of all things Professor Salvatore: his childhood, his relationship with Dr. Pierce, his friendship with Alaric, and his association with me. I think he's a lot lonelier than he lets on, but what I can't figure out is how much of his isolation is circumstantial versus self-imposed. He seems to _want_ to be around other people, but as soon as someone gets too close to broaching a sensitive subject, he retreats into himself and pushes those people away.

"Why did you bring me here?"

_Because I think you should let yourself have more fun. Because I like spending time with you. Because I want you to know that you can trust me. Because I want you to be happy._ "Why not?"

He doesn't respond as we continue walking over the leaves...until he opens his mouth again.

"I can't be your friend, Miss Gilbert."

I keep my eyes straight ahead and try to ignore the gaping hole in my stomach. "Can't or won't, Professor Salvatore?"

Neither of us say anything again for the rest of the walk back to campus, not even when I reach into my bag and hand him his two CDs and he accepts them with nothing but a grave look on his suddenly handsome face.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi all! Thank <strong>**you so much for all the love you've shown BIYE. I think of this fic as "The Little Story That Could" - it's taken a while to get this plot train moving, but now that I've taken the time to set everything in its place, the pace of BIYE is only going to get faster from this point onwards. **

**The updates I post are much shorter than chapters I've published in my past stories, and I understand that the ideal way for me to maintain the increasing tempo of BIYE is to post frequently. I want nothing more than to be able to write and post updates multiple times a week, but doing so would require me to neglect my other responsibilities that need to take top priority. Right now I'm balancing a 40 hour/week full time job and two classes as part of a Master's degree program, and I'm also writing/revising my graduate school writing samples for when I apply to English Literature Ph.D. programs this fall. I realize that many of you out there do all of the above and more on a daily basis, and for that I have all the respect and admiration for you in the world. Unfortunately for me, something's got to give, and that something has to be fanfiction. **

**This AN is not saying that BIYE is going on hiatus. I am saying, however, that its updates will not be as frequent as they've been the past several weeks. It breaks my heart to make this announcement, as I would much rather spend my summer developing the relationship between "Professor Salvatore" and "Miss Gilbert", but I want to let you all know what's going on in my life so you don't attack me with pitchforks when my updates happen more infrequently.**

**As always, I love to hear your thoughts. Let me know what you think! Also, if you have any songs that you think would be perfect for this music story, let me know so I can check them out! **

**Enjoy your weekend!**

**Amy**


	27. Chapter 27

I pause as I stand outside of Professor Salvatore's office on Thursday afternoon. I raise my knuckles to knock on his door, but my hand lingers mid-air for several seconds.

I have _no_ idea how to act around him during this rescheduled meeting.

I've thought about Monday's events so much over the past three days to the point that I sometimes question whether everything I envision actually happened. Professor Salvatore's screaming match with Dr. Pierce…impromptu laser tag…Professor Salvatore being in a genuinely good mood for the first time since I've met him – all of these memories seem so surreal, so unlikely to have happened.

I mean, who attempts to cheer up their professor by inviting them to play laser tag?

_Real mature, Elena_.

But then I recall the stern expression on Professor Salvatore's face after we finished our games. I remember his unprecedented comment that he can't be my friend, and I remember the terrible clenching in my chest as I wordlessly handed him his two CDs. I know that I didn't invent those memories. Professor Salvatore and I _did_ play laser tag together on Monday, and we parted each other that evening with our relationship in a weird state of undefined limbo. I know that he and I aren't friends yet, but it sure feels like we're moving in that direction whether he wants it to happen or not. I want us to be friends. I want him to want us to be friends, too.

I have the strongest feeling that Professor Salvatore won't make _that_ declaration for a long time.

His office door swings open and there he is, staring down at me with an expression that is a cross between apprehension and relief. "I wasn't sure if you remembered the new date and time of our meeting."

"I did."

"I'm glad to see that." Neither one of us says anything for several seconds. Do I bring up the events on Monday that caused us to reschedule our meeting to today? Should I make a casual joke about being sore from our games?

What the heck do I say or do right now?

"Shall we, Miss Gilbert?"

I look behind Professor Salvatore and see that he has stepped back from his doorframe, giving me space to enter his office. Right. Our meeting. The reason I'm here.

I have _got_ to stop making a mess of myself around this man.

I nod, walk into his office, and sit down in my normal seat across from his desk. He closes the door behind me and follows me to his desk chair. "So," he says, pulling out the binder he created to hold the most current printed copy of my thesis, "I see that James now has a friend in his regiment. Albert Salt, correct?"

I internally grimace. Of _course_ this would be the week that I decide to create a friend for the fictional version of the man sitting across from me. I didn't even put a lot of thought into this creative decision. Giving James Whitmore a friend just felt like the right thing to do, though I'm sure Professor Salvatore won't see it that way. He'll probably assume that I'm trying to transform a happier version of his life story into a historical fiction novel or something like that. I suppose I should have been a bit more subtle about using an altered version of Alaric's name for James' friend...

Maybe he won't notice the similarity.

"I read lots of anecdotes about the comradery between soldiers in the same regiments," I say, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. "I thought giving James a friend would make the story more realistic."

Professor Salvatore keeps his eyes on the binder at his fingertips as he casually flips a page. "Albert Salt sounds a lot like Alaric Saltzman."

_Busted_.

"I hadn't noticed," I primly say as I try to stave off the warmth pooling in my cheeks. Professor Salvatore snorts. I wait for him to press the issue but he simply continues, much to my relief.

"From what you've written about James so far, it seems a little bit out of character for him to accept Alar—uh, Albert's friendship so easily. You present James as a loner who doesn't trust anyone but Anne. Why Albert? What makes him so special? And why is James suddenly capable of trusting someone he barely knows?" He glances up from his binder and watches me.

My answer comes easily. "I don't think James' ability to trust is a sudden development. He's perfectly capable of trusting someone else when that person doesn't compare him to his brother and genuinely tries to get to know him for who _he_ is and not who others want him to be. He doesn't really want to be a loner, but because he's internalized the fact that Joseph likes Stephen better, he refuses to do others what he thinks is the "harm" of getting to know him and possibly depending on him. Of course, life in the regiment is all about relying on his fellow soldiers, and after almost getting killed in his first battle because he's too stubborn to ask for help, James realizes that his one man wolf pack mentality isn't going to keep him alive long enough to return home and marry Anne. He doesn't actively go and search for someone to pal around with, but when Albert refuses to shoot an escaped slave and stands by his decision when the other men berate him for it, James knows that Albert is someone he can count on to have his back. Their friendship begins as one of convenience, but as the war continues, the two men gain a lot of respect for each other."

Professor Salvatore blinks at me. "Did you just say that James has a one man wolf pack mentality?"

Did I? "Umm, maybe?"

"Does that mean that Albert is one of his own and that James' wolf pack grows by one?" Professor Salvatore's eyes glimmer with amusement as his lips quirk up into a smirk. "Let me guess, Albert's going to introduce James to two more men in the regiment, and James will think, 'Wait a second, can it be?' and he will know for sure that he's just added two more guys to his wolf pack."

"And the four of them are going to run around the South together looking for strippers and cocaine," I finish with a laugh. "You've seen _The Hangover_?"

Professor Salvatore scoffs. "I'm a man, Miss Gilbert. Of course I've seen _The Hangover_. I am, however, most impressed at how effortlessly you just quoted it in your justification of Albert's presence in the story."

I roll my eyes. "Please. Matt's forced me to watch that movie so many times that I can quote it in my sleep."

"He has good taste."

We talk about other movies that we can quote in our sleep – _Casablanca_, _The Princess Bride_, and the entire _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy for me, _Taxi Driver_ and _Apocalypse Now_ for Professor Salvatore – before we circle back around to discussing my thesis.

The next time I look at the clock, I see that two hours have swiftly passed by.

Professor Salvatore sees me glance at his clock, and he turns his head so he can look at it. "Time flies," he wryly comments, closing his binder and handing it to me. "I guess I should stop monopolizing your afternoon, huh?"

"Oh no," I protest, shoving his binder into my already stuffed bag. "Not at all. I enjoy our meetings."

"I would like to ask you a favor," he says. I stop gathering my notes and look at him. My brain moves a mile a minute as it tries to anticipate his request. "Can you please change the name of James' friend to something less…personal?" he asks. "Even just altering his surname would make me more comfortable. Albert Pepper has a nice ring to it, right?"

I can't help the giggle that escapes my mouth as I shake my head. "I'll change his name, but Albert Pepper reminds me too much of Sergeant Pepper. I can't have an Albert Pepper in my story."

A confused look spreads across his face. "Who's Sergeant Pepper?"

I mentally smack myself in the face for being so insensitive to this issue. "It's a music thing, don't worry about it." When I see that the expression in his eyes contains more intrigue than disgust, I can't help but elaborate. "The Beatles released an album in 1967 titled 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.' Many music critics deem it the best album ever created, though I'm personally an 'Abbey Road' girl myself. 'Abbey Road' is another album by The Beatles," I explain, seeing the confusion momentarily creep back into his expression. "It's much bluesier than 'Sgt. Pepper' and its psychedelic-sitar-LSD inspired songs."

Professor Salvatore nods. He wheels his chair away from his desk and stands up. I take his action as my cue to leave, so I quickly gather the rest of my things. He follows me as I walk to his office door. I step outside and turn to face him.

"Do you want to meet on Monday or Thursday or on some other day next week?"

He shrugs. "How quickly do you think you can make significant revisions based on what we talked about today?"

"I'm not sure," I admit. My schedule is packed with homework and music for the rest of the weekend. "Can I email you on Sunday when I have a better idea of my progress?"

"Sure. And think about what I said about changing Alarbert's name." He shudders. "Gosh, I think that Alarbert is the worst possible combination of two names I've ever heard in my life."

"I'll think up some new names over the weekend." I glance back at his clock and realize that I have to meet the band at Donovan's in twenty minutes. "Well, enjoy the rest of your day, Professor Salvatore."

"And you as well, Miss Gilbert." I smile at him and turn around. I take three steps before I hear his voice.

"Miss Gilbert?"

I twist my neck around to see him. "Yes?"

He hesitates before he speaks again. "If it's not too much trouble, your band should play some songs from those two albums you mentioned at your show this weekend."

I feel my eyebrows rocket off my face. "'Sgt. Pepper' and 'Abbey Road'?"

"For research purposes, of course," he immediately clarifies.

"For research purposes," I echo, unable to make heads or tails of his request. "Caroline and Bonnie usually fight over our set list, but I'll see what I can do." My head is spinning with a plethora of possibilities, and the only thing I can do right now is to remove myself from this confusing man and his confusing request. "Good night, Professor Salvatore."

"Good night, Miss Gilbert."

I barely hear his goodbye as I pivot around and rush towards the stairwell.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi readers! I finally had a break in my schedule this weekend and was able to pop out this chapter for you all. Thanks so much for sticking with this story. I know it's a huge pain in the gonads to wait so long for updates, so I really appreciate all the support and patience that you're sending my way.<strong>

**I received my first fan art from Lea for my Klaroline one-shot _Wings_ - check it out! I'm so inept at anything involving PhotoShop it's not even funny, so I've got so much love for her for making me such a cool piece of art! If any of you other banner-creating gurus out there feel the urge to use your mad artistic skillz to create me some fan art and story banners for my other stories...well, let's just say that you would complete my life, earn my eternal love, and be more wonderful than the bees knees and cat's meows combined!**

**Thanks for reading! Enjoy your Monday!**


	28. Chapter 28

"How many of you love The Beatles as much as we do?" Caroline asks the bar. The entire room roars – well, everyone except for Professor Salvatore. He's sitting at a table near the side of the room with Alaric and several other professors.

I notice, with equal parts enmity and relief, that Dr. Pierce is not one of those other professors.

I also notice that Professor Salvatore pulls a notepad and pen from his bag. He sets the pad on the table and grips the pen between his thumb and forefinger, letting it hover above the paper. He sits up straight in his chair and angles his body towards the stage. His eyes focus on Caroline as she tells a brief anecdote about The Beatles' formation. Every so often, he presses his pen to the paper and writes something down. He reminds me of my more serious students in the seminar class I teach.

Wait.

Is he really taking notes from Caroline about The Beatles?

My heart flutters for a brief moment, because let's face it, this gesture is really endearing…and then the horror kicks into my system, because Professor Salvatore's introduction to The Beatles should _not_ involve his trying to analyze the facts and figures of their sound. He's going to suck all the fun out of the music if he treats it like a math problem to solve. I am immediately wracked with tension, because I have no way – other than flailing my arms in the air and yelling like a madwoman – to get his attention and guide him in his approach to this iconic band.

Caroline's voice penetrates my haze of panic. "Now, The Beatles are technically fantastic, and I mean that in the literal sense of the word. You can break down every one of their songs note by note, lyric by lyric, and you can study these individual particles of music until you're blue in the face, and yeah, you'll probably find some sort of logical reason to justify why they're so awesome. But do you want to know why _I_ listen to The Beatles?" She pauses, looking around the room as it grows quiet. "I listen to The Beatles because they make me _feel_ something. I don't need to know _how_ or _why_ they make me want to laugh or cry or scream or fuck or sing my precious little heart out! All that matters to me is that when John, Paul, George, and Ringo command me to surrender everything I am to their music, I obey them without hesitation. I just let the magic that those four men created take me over, and I allow myself to just _feel_. Are you ready to _feel_ something, Donovan's?"

She's screaming now, and the bar is wild and amped up and ready to go. My eyes slide over to Professor Salvatore. His lips press in a firm line, and his fist now clenches around his pen as if it is a lifeline. Even though Caroline verbalized everything I wanted to say but couldn't, I now realize that telling him, a man who purposefully dams his emotions, that he needs to use them to properly experience The Beatles is probably an ill-advised idea. Why should I care how he listens to the band as long as he listens to them?

At least he came to Donovan's in the first place.

I try to push all thoughts of Professor Salvatore to the caverns of my mind as Bonnie leads us into a hard open of "I Saw Her Standing There".

The band only plays our personal favorites of The Beatles' earlier songs, as we are all eager to get to the music from their edgier, more experimental albums. Caroline and her chameleon voice are perfection: impish and silly on "A Hard Day's Night", hopeful on "I've Just Seen a Face", hauntingly compelling on "Norwegian Wood", and gritty resignation for our take on The Black Keys' cover of "She Said, She Said". When we pound the song's final chord, I brush a tendril of hair from my face and twist towards Professor Salvatore's table. His notepad still lies on the table, but his hands appear to be pen-free.

His eyes meet mine. "Sgt. Pepper's next," I mouth. He nods. I quickly turn away. I wonder if he feels smothered when I watch him. I want to give him space, but I also feel an unofficial responsibility to make sure that he's not traumatized by this re-introduction to music.

His confronting music after so many years of avoiding it is one of the bravest things I've seen anyone undertake.

We power through "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band" and slide right into "With a Little Help From My Friends" before Caroline transforms herself into a mystic goddess during "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds".

I feel a strange prickling in my blood as we play the opening stanza and chorus of "Getting Better", and as we go into the second verse, the tingles grow.

_Me used to be angry young man  
>Me hiding me head in the sand<br>You gave me the word  
>I finally heard<br>I'm doing the best that I can_

By the time we return to the chorus, the shivers morph into full-body vibrations.

_I've got to admit, it's getting better  
>It's getting better all the time<br>I have to admit, it's getting better  
>It's getting better since you've been mine<br>Getting so much better all the time_

I instinctively seek out Professor Salvatore. His eyes are closed. His chest heaves with deep, slow breaths. His fisted hands slowly unclench and lay flat on the table.

His eyes open and lock with mine. They remain connected for the rest of the song. I thank the gods for my years of piano training that allow me to continue playing without breaking the grip of his stare. As Caroline's voice fades out, his lips move to form three words.

"It's getting better."

I _soar_.

I am giddy for the rest of the show. My fingers press the piano keys with new gusto, and when it's time to begin our final song, I deliver the opening notes with conviction.

_When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me_

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_

_And in my hour of darkness she is standing right in front of me_

_Speaking words of wisdom, let it be_

The amount of communal emotion in the bar right now is staggering. We are one, bound together by the power of this song, and at the point where the original song fades out, Caroline incites the crowd to join her in belting the chorus out with as much bravado as it can muster. No one wants this night to end, and as I play the final notes of "Let It Be," everyone stands to their feet, yelling and cheering and clapping for us until their hands turn red and raw.

"Thank you!" Caroline yells over the roaring stampede of people. They surround the five of us as we make our way off the stage and over to the bar, offering us their praise and heartfelt thanks for such an amazing evening. As I try to move to a less crowded location, a hand grips my wrist.

"If you continue to play shows like that, we're not going to have any fans left."

I look up and see Elijah's lips quirked in a small, crooked smile. I beam at him and step into his hug. "There are plenty of fans in the Atlanta area to go around, Elijah."

"Maybe, but my brothers and sister could stand to learn a lesson or two about performance from your band." He looks pointedly at me. "You've played with a purpose this past month," he states. His bluntness startles me; his observation is relayed as fact, not possibility.

At Elijah's words, I can't help but glance towards Professor Salvatore and see a glare on his face that is as stark and fierce as the desert sun. I feel a surprising, immediate urge to go to him and coax that look off his face. I follow the path of his scowl with my own eyes to see who this lethal expression is intended for.

My gaze lands on Elijah.

I suddenly realize how close he and I are standing. His arm is wrapped around my waist and my head is sitting in the crook between his shoulder and chest; our bodies are angled towards each other in what I thought was a friendly gesture…but I can see how, from an outside perspective, he might look like more to me than a friendly rival.

But why should Elijah's status in my life matter to Professor Salvatore? His glare doesn't make sense….unless Elijah's done him some wrong that I don't know about, but still, he looks like he wants to rip Elijah's heart from his chest, and that's a really scary thought.

I slip out of Elijah's grasp to put some distance between us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Professor Salvatore's frown soften.

"Elena?"

I snap back to attention. "Sorry, what?"

His brown eyes are concerned as they search mine. "Are you feeling well?"

I brush his concerns away with a quick bob of my head. "Very well," I assure him, looking back towards Professor Salvatore's table. It's now empty. My heart sinks. I hate that he left before I could talk to him. I want to know what he thought about the show and see if I can talk him into letting me read whatever he wrote on his notepad. I guess I can always do these things at our meeting on Monday, but I still can't help but feel disappointed.

He didn't even say goodbye.

"Has Donovan's Band decided to put on a special show for Halloween?" Elijah asks, effortlessly changing the subject.

"Yeah, we decided at practice earlier this week." A grin spreads across my face. "Guess what it is."

A large body suddenly appears next to me. I recognize its heat and spiced woods scent.

"I don't think we've met before," Professor Salvatore says beside me, extending his hand to Elijah. "Damon Salvatore. I'm Miss Gilbert's history professor."

My entire body exhales at the mere realization that Professor Salvatore is still here. My smile is so wide, I wonder if it's going to expand off my face.

"You didn't leave."

Professor Salvatore glances down with a determined look in his blue eyes. "Nope."

Caroline's screech suddenly fills the air, effectively interfering with my inner celebration over Professor Salvatore's presence.

"Take that back, Klaus! Take that back right now!"

I narrow my eyes at Elijah. "What did he do this time?" He sighs as Professor Salvatore looks back and forth between the two of us. Elijah opens his mouth to answer my question, but Caroline's yell beats him to it.

"What the hell do you mean, your thieving little band is _also _going to perform the entire _Rocky Horror Picture Show _soundtrack on Halloween?"

* * *

><p><strong>This special shout out goes to all of my anonymous reviewers - thanks so much for taking the time to leave me your thoughts on my writing!<br>**


	29. Chapter 29

My mouth falls open as my eyes narrow to slits. I place my fists on my hips and glare at Elijah. "_You're_ performing _Rocky Horror_ for Halloween?"

"Yes."

"You can't do that!"

"I can't?" He chuckles as his eyebrow slants upward. "Do you mean to tell me that two rivaling bands that play weekly shows on the same street of bars in Atlanta can't perform the same exact show on Halloween weekend?"

"You know they can't!" I cross my arms. "This is bad, Elijah. Be serious!"

"As serious as this idiotic enmity between The Originals and Donovan's Band?" He raises his hand to my cheek and brushes a gentle finger across it. "We'll figure something out, Elena. Don't worry."

"Ahem."

Professor Salvatore clears his throat loudly. I jump back from Elijah and look up at Professor Salvatore. He is staring at Elijah with a venomous expression, though I'm sure it has everything to do with whatever was caught in his throat. His fiery gaze cools as he looks down at me.

"Can you play the show together?"

My resulting laugh is brusque. "That would be the easy solution, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, asking The Originals and Donovan's Band to play a show together would be like asking FDR and Hitler to team up for a round of golf."

"Well, obviously the latter option would be impossible considering that FDR spent the majority of his adult life in a wheelchair." His blue eyes twinkle with a mischievous glow. "A game of putt-putt, on the other hand, would have probably been a feasible plan."

I gape at him. "Did you seriously just make a joke about one of our most beloved Presidents?"

"Maybe."

_Who is this unusually playful man and where has he hidden Professor Salvatore_?

"Ahem."

It's Elijah who clears his throat this time, his brown eyes darting back and forth between myself and Professor Salvatore with a knowing air about them. He then glances over at Caroline and Klaus, who have not stopped arguing with each other this entire time. "Shall we go to them and try to talk them out of making an outlandish decision on behalf of the rest of our bands?"

I sigh. "Sure, let's run some interference." As Elijah strides towards our bickering bandmates, I turn back to Professor Salvatore. "I'm sorry for all of this. I wanted to talk to you after the show, but I think I need to take care of this situation."

He shrugs. "I can wait."

I don't know where my sudden burst of excitement comes from. "Really?"

"Of course. Can I ask you a question first?"

"Yes."

"What the heck is a Rocky Horror?"

I can't prevent the belly-laugh that escapes through my lips. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing, but it's _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_, not a Rocky Horror. It started as a British rock musical and was made into a movie in 1975, and it's one of the most ridiculous things you'll ever be a part of in your entire life. It's about this newly engaged couple who stumble upon a group of transvestites from Transsexual, Transylvania, and their leader is Tim Curry dressed up in drag, and his character creates the perfect man so he can have sex with him, and—"

I cut myself off when I look up at Professor Salvatore and see his face contorted in a hilarious blend of fear, doubt, disgust…and the slightest tinge of curiosity. "Two bands are fighting to play music based on _that_ story?"

"It's a cult classic," I defend, pleasantly surprised when he follows me towards the rest of the two bands, "and it's quirky and bizarre and perfect for Halloween. Caroline and Bonnie are going to be crushed if we have to share it with The Originals."

As we join the rest of my band and the Mikaelson siblings, I sidle up to Matt. "What's the current situation?"

He rolls his eyes. "First Klaus and Caroline tried to determine the exact moment that everyone decided to play _Rocky Horror_ to see who claimed it first. Turns out that both groups decided their Halloween show on Thursday night. Then Klaus said that if Caroline wants to sing the music so badly, she could share the lead vocals with him in his band, to which Tyler and Rebekah both threw hissy fits, and now everyone's just throwing out a lot of reasons why one band sucks and another band rocks. It's a fucking mess, Lena."

I frown. "Can you think of a fair way to decide who gets to play?"

Matt snorts. "The only thing I can think of is a coin flip, and there's no way that Caroline, Bonnie, Tyler, Klaus, and Rebekah would let the fate of their Halloween show be determined by the flip of a coin."

"Or rock, paper, scissors," I add. Matt nods. The sounds of our friends arguing with the Mikaelsons ring in my head. I groan and set my head down on the bar, praying to the gods to find a way out of this mess before someone implodes.

"What if you let someone else make the decision for you?"

I sit up at the sound of Professor Salvatore's voice. "What do you mean?"

He sits next to me at the bar and gestures at everyone else. "I mean, it's clear that no one's going to budge on this issue because both sides think that they're the best people for the job. What you need is a group of impartial people to decide which one of your bands should play the _Rocky Horror_ music, with both bands under the agreement that this group's decision is the final word on the issue."

"That could work," Matt muses. He lifts his fingers to his mouth and emits a piercing whistle. The bar grows silent as Caroline and Klaus shut up long enough to face him. "Tell them what you just said."

Professor Salvatore glances around at the ten pairs of eyes that suddenly focus on him. "Just find an outside group of people to decide who gets dibs on the soundtrack."

"An outside group of people?" Rebekah repeats, slithering her way towards Professor Salvatore. "Will you be a part of this outside group?" she purrs, resting her hand provocatively on his shoulder. I realize that the sudden tension I feel is the result of my teeth grinding themselves into dust.

"No." He shrugs off her touch and angles his body towards me. "But if I was a part of this musical jury, I'd choose Donovan's Band every time."

"Of course you would," she mutters, slinking back to her original place between Finn and Kol. I smile appreciatively at Professor Salvatore, who returns it with a sheepish grin and a roll of his eyes. I've got to admit, it's really nice having him publicly take my side. It's really weird to hear him be so open, but it's also really, really nice.

Caroline crosses her arms, thinking. "I know someone who can get us the stage at Piedmont Park on Sunday," she says, looking back at Klaus. "That way, when we beat you and you finally realize how much everyone likes our band more than they like yours, it'll be on neutral territory."

"You mean when we beat you, love," Klaus smirks.

Caroline scoffs. "I bet you the crowd chooses us."

"I bet that you're wrong."

Her blue eyes gleam wickedly. "If they choose Donovan's Band, I get to choose which _Rocky Horror_ character everyone in your band dresses as that night."

"If we win," Klaus echoes over Rebekah's protests, "you have to sing with me for an entire performance."

The strong look in Caroline's eyes waivers for a brief second, but she ignores Tyler's snarl and quickly extends her hand to Klaus. "Deal."

"Deal."

They shake, each one of them looking equally confident that they will win. As the Mikaelsons file out of Donovan's, I face Professor Salvatore.

"Apparently I'm playing a show at Piedmont Park tomorrow."

He chuckles. "Then I'd better let you get home."

"What? But we didn't get to talk about the show!" I protest, trying to subdue the yawn in my throat. "And I kept you waiting here—"

"Well, we always have Monday, Miss Gilbert. You need your rest for tomorrow." He leans in, making me feel as if I'm part of a conspiracy. "If I have to hear that man sing about transvestites on Halloween because you didn't get enough sleep and end up ruining things for your band, I will be most disappointed."

I laugh at the mock horror in his expression. "I'll do my best to keep from disappointing you, Professor Salvatore." I stand with him and watch him slide into his leather jacket. His motions send a wave of his spiced woods scent towards me. My stomach flips. I push the feeling down as I walk him over to the door. "Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Professor Salvatore."

"You as well." He places his hand on the door handle, pauses, and turns back to face me. He opens and closes his mouth several times, as if he wants to say something but doesn't know how to say it. I wait for him to straighten out his words in his head.

The wait is well worth it.

"There is _nothing_ disappointing about you, Miss Gilbert."

My eyes widen at his confession.

They stay wide as he pushes the door open and rushes out of the bar.

They stay wide through Sunday when the enthusiastic crowd at Piedmont Park determines that Donovan's Band gets to play the _Rocky Horror _soundtrack on Halloween weekend.

I don't disappoint Professor Salvatore.

Why is that awareness suddenly so discomforting?

* * *

><p>Hi readers! Thanks for your continued support of BIYE. I love the love you've shown this story!<p>

Exciting news – a super-wonderful friend of mine (you're the best, Jenn!) nominated me as the Most Motivational Beta for an Energize Work in Progress (WIP)award! Two of my other fanfic faves are also nominated for one of these awards: ElvishGrrl's _Find the River_ is nominated for the Most Promising TVD FanFiction, and CreepingMuse is nominated for the Most Motivational Reviewer. The full list of nominees can be found here: www*energizewipawards*blogspot*com/2011/09/nominees*html (just change the *'s to .'s when you paste into your browser window). Voting started on July 13th and lasts through July 20th. I would be so appreciative if you voted for myself and these lovely ladies – if you feel so inclined, of course! To get to the voting ballot, click on the News link at the top of the webpage and then click on Vote Here.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend! I've got a first date with a cute boy tonight, so I'm alternating between states of anticipatory nerves and Cloud 9 giddiness. Wish me luck!


	30. Chapter 30

The weeks leading up to our live-action _Rocky Horror_ gig are one massive crunch of classes, writing, work, costume fittings, rehearsals, rehearsals, and oh, did I mention rehearsals? As soon as we won the coveted right from The Originals to play this show, Caroline went into "extreme Caroline" mode – you know, the one where she commandeers all of our free time to practice for this thing and completely disregards the fact that all of us have other commitments that need to be prioritized before a special Halloween concert.

I love the girl dearly, and her focus is admirable, but sometimes her single-mindedness drives me up a wall.

Then again, I'm pretty sure that the slave-driver mantra she's adopted as her own has less to do with putting on a good show and more to do with sticking it to Klaus and his siblings. I keep _that_ thought between myself and Matt. He agrees with me, but neither one of us wants to experience Caroline's reaction to our theory. I can't afford to add her wrath to the list of other things I have to deal with right now, not when I'm operating on so little energy as it is.

I'm exhausted as I trudge into McKenna Hall for the second time this week. I haven't gone to bed before three in the morning once in the entirety of October. Caroline keeps us at band practice until midnight six nights a week, and I can't go to bed after she releases us because I still have a mountain of homework to do. Most of it is for Professor Salvatore. He thinks I can finish my novel by the end of the semester, so he upped our meetings to twice a week. I now need to have new material for him to read, in addition to revisions of the plot sections we discuss in our previous meetings, on Mondays _and_ Thursdays. Truthfully, I don't know how much longer I can keep up with this crazy schedule. I should have said no when he first proposed that we meet more often, but his enthusiasm for my thesis is really flattering. He's so dynamic when it comes to this project. He's brilliant and insightful, and he's taken to emailing me throughout the week with his ideas on what to add or edit to improve the story. I don't think I've seen him this excited about anything since I took him to play laser tag – an observation that makes me decidedly smug. Is it so wrong to like the fact that _I'm_ the one who gives him something to look forward to?

Keep in mind, that "something" is purely academic…there's nothing wrong about us spending time together if it's for academic reasons.

My chest tightens every time I try to give myself this reassurance.

"Elena!"

I look up and see Alaric talking with Professor Salvatore outside of their offices.

"Hi, Alaric!" I amble over to them. "Professor Salvatore."

His eyes roam over my messenger bag before capturing mine. "Miss Gilbert."

"Damon was just telling me how well your thesis is progressing," Alaric says. "I hope you'll let me read it when you're finished."

"Of course," I assure him. "I could really use your input on a couple of the war scenes to make sure I didn't mess up any of the details."

Professor Salvatore clears his throat. "It's not like I have a Ph.D. for my knowledge on the Civil War or anything," he mutters. His words sound relaxed, but there's definitely an undercurrent of ice and insecurity to what he says…like he's worried that I'm going to abandon him and reinstate Alaric as my main advisor.

"Only after Professor Salvatore and I have looked over everything," I hastily say, attempting to prevent any permanent damage. "It doesn't hurt to have another pair of eyes look things over. The other day, one of my classmates read a story he wrote that he set at Woodstock. He insisted that Bob Dylan was one of the acts. If he'd talked to me beforehand, I could have told him that Dylan refused to play Woodstock because he was disgusted that a bunch of hippies would be hanging around his house."

Alaric and Professor Salvatore stare at me with bored expressions. "So, uh, that's why I want to have multiple people read my story…" I trail off. I should have known better than to give these two a music-based example. Silly Elena.

Alaric awkwardly pats me on the back before he locks his office and slings his own bag over his shoulder. "Well, I'm willing to read anything whenever it's ready, Elena. Just let me know, okay?"

"Of course, Alaric."

"Great. Have a good rest of your day, you two." He shakes Professor Salvatore's hand, nods at me, and goes to head down the hall. He quickly stops and turns around. "Elena, your show's this Saturday, right? _Rocky Horror_?"

I grin. "Sure is, Alaric. Will I see you there?"

"Do I have to wear a costume?"

"You'll be horribly ridiculed if you don't."

He grimaces. "Damn. Guess I'm coming as Brad, then."

"Not Dr. Frank-N-Furter?" I tease. Alaric grimaces again.

"I don't think I have the legs to pull him off, Elena. I think I'll play it safe with Brad."

I laugh. The image of Alaric as Dr. Frank-N-Furter _is_ a particularly horrifying one. "I'll see you on Saturday, Alaric."

As Alaric walks down the stairwell, Professor Salvatore turns to me. "Shall we?"

I rummage through my bag as I follow him into his office and retrieve a thin, square paper envelope. "Speaking of Woodstock," I say, handing it to him, "welcome to the 1960s."

He eyes the CD sleeve with apprehension. "You're not about to subject me to hours of flower-power free-loving, are you?" he asks, the corners of his mouth wrinkling with assumed distaste.

I roll my eyes at him. "How can you complain about an era of music that you've never heard?"

"Hey, I don't have to listen to music to know that Woodstock was just an excuse for a bunch of dirty hippies to get together and sing Kumbayah for days at a time," he retorts. I huff and snatch the CD back off his desk.

"You don't get this if you're going to be mean."

His eyes widen in mock horror. "I'm not being _mean_, Miss Gilbert. I'm simply expressing skepticism."

"You are being mean to the hippies of yesteryear and by distrusting my judgment in your musical education, you're being mean to me."

"I would _never_ be mean to you, Miss Gilbert."

"Well, you're doing a fantastic job of it right now."

Professor Salvatore steps out from behind his desk and saunters to my side, stopping mere inches from me. I try to hold my stern expression as he holds out his hand and gives me his biggest, most earnest impersonation of puppy dog eyes.

Good heavens, when did his eyes get this blue?

"I'm sorry for being mean to you, Miss Gilbert. May I please have my CD?"

Oh, hell. It appears that my resolve is easily weakened by voices that sound like cashmere.

As I extend my CD-filled hand towards him, a thought pops in my head. My hand snaps back.

"Are you coming to the show on Saturday night?"

His persuasive expression melts away as his outstretched arm drops to his side. "This is the one about the tranny Frankenstein that I had to use my expert Henry Kissinger negotiation skills to help your band obtain, right?"

I decide that clarifying the plot of _Rocky Horror_ may not help my cause here. "That's the one."

His hands scrub his face before combing through his hair. "And I have to dress up?"

"It's a Halloween party, Professor. It's implied that everyone dresses up."

He sighs loudly. "If I agree to this, I want two things from you in return. One, that CD."

I raise my eyebrow at him. "And the other?"

The beseeching look returns at full blast. "Will you help me figure out what to wear?"

* * *

><p>It's Saturday night. The big night. The night of the show that we've rehearsed for the entire damn month. It's ten minutes until show time, and I'm more than ready to get this show on the road.<p>

You could even say that I'm shivering with antici…PAtion.

I look in the mirror in front of me and pat at my clownish hair. I'm dressed as Magenta. My makeup isn't as bold as hers, but I am wearing the fishnets, black granny boots, and a maid's dress that's so short, I'm pretty sure everyone could see up my hoo-ha if I didn't have to sit behind my piano all night.

Thank goodness for small favors.

The bathroom door creaks and Bonnie walks in looking like an ethnic version of Columbia. She takes one look at the poof of hair atop my head and bursts out laughing.

"Man, that is going to be a _bitch_ to deal with in the morning," she crows. "I've gotta hand it to you, Gilbert, you get mad points for effort."

"How long do you think it will take before birds start building their nests in this thing?" I ask, handing her a bobby pin to attach Columbia's gold hat to her head. She snorts.

"I'd say you're fair game once you step outside."

"Wonderful."

Caroline barrels through the bathroom door, armed with two cans of hairspray that she immediately uses on me.

"Stop touching your hair, Elena, we don't want it to deflate by the end of the night," she scolds as she asphyxiates me with aerosol. I glare at her and her perfect Janet-esque curls.

"I don't think this nest is going anywhere, Care," I grit. She ignores me as she continues to shellac my fro in place. She adds one final spray for good measure, then caps the can and leaves it on the bathroom counter. The three of us look at our reflections in the mirror.

I have to admit, we look pretty good.

Caroline digs a digital camera out of her white purse and gives it to Bonnie. "Girls picture!" she squeals. The three of us press our faces together – well, I _try_ to get closer to Caroline, but there's a foot of hair between us. Her face wrinkles as my hair goes into her mouth, and Bonnie and I can't keep from giggling as the camera flash goes off.

"You guys," Caroline whines, spitting out some excess hairspray. "We are _so_ redoing that picture!"

A knock sounds on the bathroom door as the camera flashes a second time. Matt peeks his head in, his thick-rimmed glasses denoting him as the perfect Brad. "You girls ready?"

The three of us file out of the bathroom and gather with him and Tyler, whose fake scars are peeling off his forehead. Caroline presses them back to his skin. "Looking good, Eddie," she purrs, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "Have The Originals arrived yet?"

Matt disappears into the main section of the bar and then returns. "I didn't see them."

"Well, they'll be here," she insists, digging her cell phone out of her purse. "It's ten o'clock, guys. Let's go."

We take the stage to a bunch of cheers and camera flashes. Between our detailed costumes, the large video screen in back of Bonnie's drum set, and the overabundance of cottonball spiderwebs and plastic skeletons littered around the bar, we've outdone ourselves tonight. I'm eager to play. I can feel the anticipation buzzing throughout my veins…or maybe that's just the giant bottle of Southern Tier's Pumking ale that I've already consumed. I don't think the beer gods could create finer fall ale. Liquid pumpkin pie, that Pumking. Delicious.

A smirk crosses Caroline's face as the bar erupts in laughter. I follow her line of vision to the front door of Donovan's, where The Originals stand in costume. Dressed as Brad and Janet, Elijah and Rebekah lead in Finn, who bears an eerie resemblance to Riff Raff, and Kol, who wears nothing but a pair of golden briefs.

And then there's Klaus...Klaus, who, because of the rules of his and Caroline's bet, is wearing the pearl necklace, bustier, fishnets, and platform heels of Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

Wow.

I can _almost_ forgive Caroline for working us so hard this past month. The sight of Klaus Mikaelson dressed in drag is a priceless, precious thing. His costume is so accurate that he could be the clone of Tim Curry. I join the audience in applauding him as he wobbles his way to the front of the stage – his legs are going to be _sore_ tomorrow morning.

The spectacle of Dr. Klaus-N-Furter distracts me to the point that I almost miss the opening of Donovan's front door. My glance drifts to the bar entrance. My breath hitches in my throat.

Professor Salvatore slips inside. His black t-shirt and jeans cling to his muscles like a second skin. His leather vest and motorcycle boots give him an aura of danger and mystique. His dark hair is haphazardly slicked back to reveal a crude drawing of a scar on his forehead, and an inflatable saxophone hangs off his back.

Ho-ly shit.

Professor Salvatore looks _hot_.

No, scratch that. Professor Salvatore looks supermegafoxyawesomehot.

The thoughts materialize in my head before I can stop them. Bad Elena. Bad, bad, bad Elena. I _can't_ find Professor Salvatore attractive. I am his advisee. I am a professional. I refuse to get a schoolgirl crush on the very, very unavailable man who is my professor and absolutely nothing more.

His eyes find mine. His entire face erupts in a sheepish grin.

"Is this okay?" he mouths, gesturing to his costume.

The fact that he's asked me for my approval makes my heart melt. So much for _not_ getting that schoolgirl crush. I nod and shoot him what I hope is a reassuring smile before I turn back to the band.

Professor Salvatore looks much, much more than okay.

Hot patootie, indeed.

* * *

><p><strong>It's good to be back, readers. I've missed you since my last update. <strong>

**My life since July, the LSS (Long Story Short) version: the cute boy and I dated for three weeks before he decided to faze me out because he wants to "meet as many people as possible." Hrmph. I also finished my summer classes and received A's in both of them, continued to work on my Ph.D. program writing samples, and signed up to take the GRE. Apologies for being distant and standoffish this summer – I tend to become super-focused like Caroline and ignore the rest of the world when I've got a lot on my plate. **

**Please do drop me a line to let me know what you thought of the chapter, how you're doing, what you're looking forward to this fall, etc. Me? I'm looking forward to my creative writing class (it starts on Thursday!), fire-scented fall air, and finally getting to see The Black Keys in concert after two missed opportunities of doing so. **


	31. Chapter 31

Professor Salvatore's facial reactions to _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ are priceless.

His lips twitch into a smirk at Susan Sarandon's over-exuberant reactions during "Dammit Janet." His eyes widen as everyone else in the bar starts dancing the Time Warp, and he's jostled by so many pelvic-thrusting people that he presses himself against the back wall and clings to it as if the brick will save him from becoming a part of the flailing mass. When Tim Curry makes his first appearance as the drag-tastic Dr. Frank-N-Furter, his lower jaw drops to the ground.

It stays there for the rest of the film.

I should probably be watching the screen during the non-musical parts of the movie, but my eyes always drift back to Professor Salvatore. They can't help it. _I_ can't help it. I've seen _RHPS_ dozens of times before, but I've never seen anything quite as endearing as the confused and horrified expressions that appear on Professor Salvatore's face. At one point, he catches my glance and mouths "What. The. Fuck?" with such aghast tenacity that I can't do anything but giggle at how positively bewildered he is in this moment.

He's adorable.

He looks drool-worthy in his jeans, leather, and slicked-back hair.

Shit. I cannot have those kinds of thoughts about this man.

It's too dangerous for me to think _that_ way about him. I will control my brain. I will not get excited whenever I get to see him…or talk to him…or anything that involves any kind of contact with him. He's just a professor, just like Ric or any of the other people I've taken classes from at Atlanta.

My heart does _not_ pound that way whenever Ric approaches me the way Professor Salvatore is right now.

The movie just ended, and while everyone else flocked to the bar to replenish their booze supply, I remained on my piano bench to take in the rambunctious scene. Professor Salvatore maneuvers his way to me through the throngs of people with his standard glass of bourbon in hand. His brow has an unusual amount of wrinkles. I assume it's because he's still trying to process the experience of this entire evening.

I give him what I hope is a comforting smile. "How are we doing?"

He snatches an empty chair from an unsuspecting undergrad and slumps into it, leaning backward as his free hand scrubs his face. His mouth opens and closes several times, almost as if the words he wants to say in one moment aren't adequate enough to describe any new words that race through his head in the next one. Maybe I've broken him.

"All pop culture can't be like _that_," he eventually mutters, blindly gesturing toward the blank movie screen. His eyes pop open and then narrow at me. "You tricked me."

"What? How did I trick you?"

He frowns and takes a long swig of bourbon. "There's no way I would have agreed to watch that thing otherwise."

I lean forward on my piano bench in a conspiratorial manner. "Does this mean that you don't want me to burn you a copy of the movie soundtrack?" I ask, unable to prevent the silly grin from spreading across my face.

"Absolutely not, Miss Gilbert."

Professor Salvatore's current expression reminds me of a petulant toddler who's just been told that he has to eat all of his vegetables if he wants dessert. I can't resist teasing him a little. "I think I'm going to make the CD for you anyway. I think all of this surface disgust on your face is masking the fact that you secretly liked the movie. I wouldn't be surprised if I walked into our next meeting session and found you practicing the Time Warp in the middle of your office."

He scowls at me, though there's a playful spark in his eyes that I note with relief. "It's no wonder that you're a fiction writer, Miss Gilbert. Your inclination to create narratives of events that have a snowball's chance in hell of happening is staggering."

"We'll see about that."

He rolls his eyes. "Don't get your hopes up."

The noise in Donovan's has crescendoed to a deafening roar of chatter and clinking beer bottles that makes it difficult for us to hear each other. I hop down from my piano bench and sit on the edge of the stage, careful to keep from revealing a little too much of myself in this ridiculously short getup of a costume. The last thing I need is to flash Professor Salvatore my lower lady parts. I refuse to be _that_ desperate for his attention.

"I like your costume," I blurt out over the bass of Stevie Wonder's "Superstition."

"Yeah?" He looks down at his outfit. "It seemed like the most badass option out of the ones you gave me."

"Well, you look great. Really, uh, accurate." _Shut up, Elena. Stop ogling your professor. Change the subject_. "What'd you use to draw on your scars?"

He hesitates. "Dr. Pierce – uh, Katherine – left some of her eyeliner crap in my bathroom. I figure I'll buy her a new one if she yells at me."

My good mood instantly deflates at the mention of she-devil Dr. Pierce. Maybe this is a good thing. If I'm constantly reminded that she's in Professor Salvatore's picture, my attraction to him won't grow out of control. I can be his student, nothing more, nothing less. "How's that going?" I ask, trying my hardest to keep my voice cool. Disinterested. Friendly.

"Fine." The word flies out of his mouth faster than Superman's speeding bullet, its sharpness pricking me like a thumbtack. I resist the urge to flinch and plaster a smile on my face.

"That's...great," I say through clenched teeth. "Just...great."

He gives me a pointed look. "Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Putting on a show for me."

My face falls at Professor Salvatore's chastisement. It hurts more than it should; I can feel the tears rushing to the front of my eyes. This imminent meltdown is clearly due to the Pumking. I'm never drinking again if alcohol's going to make me break down at the tiniest slight. I don't say anything as I try to get it together. Crying in front of Professor Salvatore is quite possibly the worst, most embarrassing thing I could possibly do in this moment.

The heat of Professor Salvatore's presence curls around me. My head stays tipped to the ground, but out of the corner of my eye I see him stand up and sit next to me on the stage. His arm and thigh press lightly into mine, creating a strange warmth that glows throughout my entire body.

His voice is uncharacteristically soft when he speaks again. "I understand what you're trying to do and I appreciate it. It's no secret that Katherine's a difficult person to be around." He pauses, and I've willed down my waterworks enough that I can glance up at him to see his chest heave with a sigh. "I don't trust many people, but I trust you, so don't tell me something just because you think it's what I want to hear, okay? You've always been honest with me. Please don't stop that now."

Our eyes flash up and meet each other at the same time. I don't expect his blues to show as much stark need as they do, but there's no denying the veiled desperation in his gaze.

How can I deny him this plea?

"I won't," I say. "Promise."

The small smile that quirks his lips brightens my spirits enough to illuminate an entire city at night. Even if he'll never admit it, I know that Professor Salvatore likes having me around, but I've never realized that he needs my honesty as much as I need his. This is a big moment for us. I can feel it. Part of me wants to run an Olympic-style victory lap around the bar, but I'm just as content to settle back into a comfortable silence with him, sipping our beer and bourbon as our eyes drift around the room. The sudden sound of Caroline's voice causes both of us to turn towards her.

"This is a good look for you, Klaus," she taunts, casually taking a sip of whiskey from the glass in her hand. "You know, I have a few pairs of heels in my closet that I don't wear anymore that would really take your legs from an eight to a ten. Should I bring them to Donovan's next weekend for you to try on?"

Klaus smirks. "You think my legs are an eight, darling? Tell me, what else have you noticed about me that's at least eighty percent to your satisfaction?"

"Nothing!" she sputters, slamming her empty glass on the far side of the stage at the same time that Professor Salvatore leans into me.

"The sexual tension surrounding those two is captivating," he murmurs into my ear. I shiver at the way his bourbon breath tingles my skin and try to not think about how seductive the words "sexual tension" sound coming from his mouth.

"No way. Caroline's crazy about Tyler," I retort, forcing myself to keep my eyes on Caroline and Klaus to avoid from turning into a puddle of Professor Salvatore-induced goo. "She wants nothing to do with Klaus."

"—I told you to be Frank-N-Furter because I knew you'd look ridiculous as him, not because I had some uncontrollable desire to see your hairy legs in tights!" Caroline scowls. I'm transfixed as Klaus advances toward her, forcing her back into the stage, leaving an inch of space between their bodies. My pulse races as I watch them. This is one thrilling encounter...and apparently I'm a bit of a voyeur?

"Your words say that, but your eyes hint at another motivation, love." He chuckles. "I think that you requested my presence as Dr. Frank-N-Furter tonight because you want to recreate the scene in Janet's bedroom. I wonder if you'd surrender to me as swiftly as she does to her midnight visitor?"

"You see?" Professor Salvatore's low voice fills my ear again. "All of these petty arguments are just their version of foreplay. When two people care about each other so much, when they have that much chemistry with each other, it's only a matter of time before they do something about it."

I look back at Caroline and Klaus, now a breath apart from each other, before Caroline shoves at Klaus's chest and storms away. My head clouds with thoughts as I watch Klaus stare after her retreating form with an inscrutable expression on his face.


	32. Chapter 32

"I found something that I think you'll be interested in."

Professor Salvatore pushes a brightly colored flyer across his desk to me. I smooth out the piece of paper with my fingers and read its contents.

_**The G.S. Johnson Literary Award**_

"_**For Excellence in American Historical Fiction"**_

_**An annual award consisting of $10,000 and a framed citation of achievement honoring the best fiction set in a period in American history prior to 1980. It encourages the writing and publishing of outstanding historical fiction by recognizing the author's great effort to make the rich history of America accessible to the educated general reader.**_

_**Publishers or authors are requested to submit five copies of short stories which meet the following criteria:**_

_**Story has not been previously published**_

_**Incidents of history can constitute the main plot of the story or merely provide the setting**_

_**Young adult and adult stories only**_

_**Juries will examine each story for excellence of writing, attention to detail, accuracy, and its ability to hold the reader's interest.**_

_**Deadline for Submission: October 31st, 2012, 11:59p.m. PST**_

My eyes bug on that date. October 31st? Halloween?

_Two days from now?_

No. Way. No way. I can't pull this off. There is no way that I can pull this feat off. I'm exhausted. Dead tired. The only way I function these days is by injecting a double-shot of espresso into my bloodstream every morning, but I'm not used to having so much caffeine in my system so I feel jittery and irritable all the time. I'm barely keeping up with my lesson plans and work for my other classes. Caroline's acting worse than Mussolini when it comes to the Donovan's Band rehearsals and set list for the show that's actually on Halloween (because apparently our _Rocky Horror_ bonanza on Saturday isn't enough to exempt us from playing another huge gig four days later). Oh God, I am _so_ burnt out, and now Professor Salvatore shows me this writing contest with a ten-thousand dollar prize that's in _my_ genre and has the potential to change my life if I win, _two freaking days from the deadline_?

Who does this guy think I am, Rosie the Riveter or something?

Professor Salvatore jolts me from my inner freak-out. "I perused the winning entries from the past three years."

"How were they?"

He shrugs. "Anything you write is better than all of them combined, but that's just my opinion."

Professor Salvatore's going to make my need for sunrise espresso obsolete if he continues to make my heart race so fast with his sweet words.

I try to play it cool. "So, do you think I have a shot?"

"Of course." His eyes brighten as he leans towards me. "Enter the contest, Miss Gilbert. Blow everyone else out of the water."

In this moment, it doesn't matter how overwhelmed I am by everything that's going on in my life. It doesn't matter that I have student essays to grade or a presentation this week or that Caroline's acting like, well, Caroline. All that matters right now is that because I have such a huge, stupid crush on Professor Salvatore and because I want to impress him so badly, I will enter something in this ill-timed competition just because he wants me to.

"I'll do it."

He beams.

My heart drums a harsh beat against my chest.

* * *

><p>"You have <em>got<em> to be kidding me, Elena Gilbert." A scowl mars Caroline's pretty face as she folds her arms over her pale blue sweater. "You want to bail on the Halloween show to write a _story_?"

I keep my gaze even with hers, knowing full well that if I show the slightest sign of hesitation, Caroline will pounce and have me playing piano on Wednesday night. "Yes."

She raises a single, knowing eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes."

Caroline tries a different approach. "You like playing Halloween songs more than anything in the world, Elena. You know that this is the only night of the year that we play them. Are you really going to give them up for a story?"

She's right. I love Halloween music. It's mysterious. Sultry. Sexy. I always feel free when I play the piano, but there's something about playing songs about witchcraft, superstition, and howling that just makes me feel untamed. I don't _want_ to bail on the Halloween show, but my time with Donovan's Band is the only thing I can give up to make sure this contest entry gets submitted on time.

"My schoolwork comes first, Caroline. I can't do everything."

"So don't write your story! Play with us on Halloween! Come on, Elena, you know you want to..."

"Yeah, Elena, we need your mad skills on 'I Put a Spell on You'", Tyler chimes in.

"And 'Strange Times'".

"'Superstition'".

"'Sympathy for the Devil'".

Caroline and Tyler go back and forth for another minute, listing songs from our set that make my fingers curl and my heart thump and my entire body itch to play. My resolve crumbles with each new song they name, and when Caroline says Florence and the Machine's "Howl", I throw my hands up in defeat.

"Alright, alright, I'll play on Halloween!" I concede. Caroline releases a celebratory whoop and rushes over to me. She and Tyler engulf me in a bear hug from both sides while Bonnie pounds out a drum solo of victory. Matt, on the other hand, regards me with a cautious glance from behind the bar. He steps underneath the bar door and heads towards the back storeroom.

"Hey Elena, can you help me carry something?"

Good old Matt and his codes of our discrete, best friend conversations. I follow him into storage and close the door behind us. He turns around and looks at me with a concerned expression.

"This writing contest sounds a lot more important than Halloween, Lena," he says. "Do what you need to do. It's okay if you need to take some time away from the band."

I plaster what I hope is a convincing smile on my face, even though Matt knows me so well that it's not going to work. "It's no problem, Matt. I really want to play on Halloween."

Matt takes my hands between the two of his. "If that's what you really want, then I'll back your decision one hundred percent, but don't let Caroline bully you into playing with us. She'll get over it." He smooths the hair on my head and the gesture is so comforting that I fight the urge to cry.

But I don't. It's okay. I'm okay. I'll make this work because I always make it work. I _will_ enter this contest and I _will_ play on Halloween and I _will_ survive the process.

I take a deep breath, smile, and move away from Matt.

"It's fine, Matt. Let's go practice."

* * *

><p>Halloween comes. I am <em>not<em> fine.

It's 10:49 at night. I'm sitting behind my piano at Donovan's, trying to figure out what song the rest of the band is playing and if my fingers are doing a good enough job at keeping up with them. Is it "Witchy Woman"? "Bark at the Moon"? I don't know. I don't even know how I got here. Did I walk? Knock some kid off his tricycle and commandeer it? Either option sounds just as plausible right about now. I vaguely remember taking a 5-hour ENERGY drink about, uh, five hours ago...which means that it's time for a new one! Yay!

A harsh clash of chords suddenly sounds from somewhere close to me. My head snaps up and I look around the room to discover the culprit. Bonnie, dressed to the nines in a witch costume, is laughing so hard she can't keep the beat, while Marilyn Monroe Caroline is giving me the most bone-chilling glare. Does she think that _I_ made that sound?

I look down at my hands. They are not on the right keys at all. Whoops.

Can sleep deprivation and frayed nerves drive a woman to insanity?

I stiffen my body and force myself to focus through the end of what I discern is "Black Magic Woman". As we play the last note of the song, Caroline moves her mouth away from the microphone and storms over to me.

"What is _wrong_ with you tonight?" she hisses. "Get yourself together and stop playing like you're brain dead, and if you can't do that, then leave after the next song so it doesn't look like I'm kicking you out, even though I totally am."

"Fine with me," I mutter, willing my eyes to stay open. Marilyn-Carolyn Caroline rolls her eyes at me and struts back to the front of the stage. I shake my head to clear out its sleep deprivation-induced cobwebs and concentrate long enough to make it through four minutes of "Highway to Hell". When the song ends, I dismiss myself as gracefully as I can – which, given that I'm dressed as Amy Winehouse, probably doesn't look graceful at all – and I slip out of Donovan's through its back-alley entrance. The same three words run on a continuous loop through my head.

_McKenna. Contest. Write._

Fun fact: my contest deadline is in three hours and ten minutes and I don't have a damn thing to submit for it.

I slip out of my towering hooker heels, hold them in either hand, and run back to my apartment in bare feet. Yeah, I'm probably gaining a world of diseases in the process, but time is of the essence and breaking my ankle in those five inchers would really put a damper on my night. When I get back to my place, I drop my shoes at the door and slip on my used Converse, grab my messenger bag, and sprint to McKenna Hall.

I race up the stairs and settle into one of the work nooks on the fourth floor. I turn on my laptop, pull out the rules to the contest, and open a blank document. The screen stares at me. The cursor blinks once…twice…a third time. History. American history. Vietnam. George Washington. Baseball. Think, Elena. Think.

I've got _nothing_.

Nothing! How can I have nothing? I'm a writer, dammit! Writers aren't supposed to get writer's block - not hours before a deadline! I haven't been able to think of anything good to write about ever since Professor Salvatore told me about this contest, and believe me, I've scoured my mental history books to try to think of at least _something_ that can be developed into a story. I can feel the pressure building in my chest as I just sit at my computer and stare at the blank screen. I should have never agreed to submit something to this contest. I should have found the courage to say no to Professor Salvatore, to not be so swayed by his encouragement and confidence in me, to stop burrowing him so deeply under my skin.

"Miss Gilbert?"

No.

Not that voice. _Any_ voice but that silk toffee voice that told me about this contest and said pretty things to make me feel invincible, because right now I feel anything but invincible, and I need the man who owns that voice to be anywhere but here so I can get this damn elephant pressure off my chest and stop pretending that I have my life together.

Much to my dismay, Professor Salvatore steps around the corner. A surprised, delighted smile spreads across his face. "It's almost midnight. What are you doing here?"

I freeze. He's so nice and sincere and concerned, and I don't deserve a bit of it. I don't have a single idea for his contest, and I don't want to disappoint him, and I'm tired and frustrated and dressed like Amy freaking Winehouse of all people, and every scrap of welled emotion that I've worked so hard to keep damned for the past two days – heck, for the past _month_ – just explodes from me.

I burst into tears right in front of Professor Salvatore. The harder I try to pull myself together, the harder the waterworks pour from me.

"I'm sorry," I snivel, wiping tears away from my face as fast as I can. "I'm fine…I'm fine…" My cheeks are hot and flushed, and I'm so embarrassed that I'm having a complete breakdown in front of the man who I'm absolutely crazy about. I avoid eye contact with him and stare down at the floor as I mop my tear-stained face.

I don't hear anything from Professor Salvatore. Maybe he ran for the hills. I wouldn't blame him if he did – I wouldn't want to deal with a crazy emotional female student at midnight, either. I have no idea how I'm going to face him after tonight and restrain myself from shoving my head in the nearest hole I can find.

I eventually look up to see if Professor Salvatore booked it away from me and my misery, but he's not gone. No, he's still standing across from me, his arms hanging down at his sides, staring at me with the most…_compassionate_ look that I've ever seen anyone wear. We look at each other for several moments.

He opens his arms. I run into them. I don't think twice about it. He wraps himself around me, and I'm cocooned in a protective hold of warmth and safety and _him_, and I'm so relieved to feel emotionally safe for the first time in a while that I cry and cry and cry some more.

* * *

><p><strong>Happy Fall, everyone! Thanks so much for reading and leaving your reviews – I love to hear what you think! <strong>


	33. Chapter 33

Professor Salvatore rubs soothing circles on my back as I cry the rest of my tears into his chest. When my waterworks finally stop, I sniffle and take a small step backwards. Embarrassment floods my cheeks when I see the large damp spot and streaks of black mascara that now stain Professor Salvatore's shirt. I realize that I probably look even more like Amy Winehouse now than I did when I started the night – the sad, drugged-out version of her, that is. Before I do anything else, I have to make myself slightly more presentable to the world.

"Will you excuse me for a moment?" I don't wait for Professor Salvatore's response as I rush out of the alcove and towards the women's room at the other end of the hallway. When I reach the bathroom, I shove the door open and hurry to the large mirror in from of the sink area. I look at my reflection.

Yep, I resemble a red-eyed, rabid raccoon.

I run the sink and splash cold water on my face. Grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser, I scrub at my splotched makeup until it's completely gone from my skin. I turn off the water, toss the used paper towel in the trashcan, and grab a clean one to pat my face dry. When I finish, I stop and observe myself. My skin is a shade of scoured pink, and the whites of my eyes are tinted a similar color. I take several deep breaths. Inhale, exhale. In, out. _You're okay_, I reassure myself. _You're fine. You just had a complete emotional collapse in front of Professor Salvatore while dressed as Amy Winehouse, but you're fine._

A groan escapes my lips, and my cheeks flush a deeper red. I feel like a stupid little girl for having such a thorough breakdown in Professor Salvatore's presence. Why couldn't I have kept myself together for three more hours? Why couldn't Alaric have been here tonight instead of him? I mean, I don't want any of my professors to see my weaknesses, but I need to keep myself especially collected around Professor Salvatore. I can't let myself think that it's acceptable for me to be so vulnerable with him. I _want_ things to be that open between us, but it's not appropriate, not while he's my professor and I'm his student. I need to draw my own lines and I can't let them be blurred.

With my resolve set, I walk out of the bathroom and back to my work station. Professor Salvatore is seated in the chair across from the one I was in. He looks up at me at me as I reenter the space and grants me a small smile. I hammer down the flutter in my stomach as I sit down in my seat.

My eyes fall on the tear-stained blotch on his chest. "I'm sorry about your shirt," I apologize. "I'll pay for it to be cleaned, I promise."

"It's just a shirt," he says, shrugging away my offer. "Don't worry about it."

"Thank you."

Silence looms between us as we stare at each other. I wonder if there's anything I can talk about that will prevent us from acknowledging about this awkward situation. Unfortunately, Professor Salvatore speaks first.

"Talk to me," he implores. His eyes plead with mine. "Tell me what happened back there, and don't say that it was nothing, because that wasn't nothing."

I don't know where to begin. I want to be honest with him, but I don't want to lay all of my cards on the table just yet. Glancing at the advertisement for the writing competition out of the corner of my eye, I place my fingertips on top of the paper and slide it across the table to him.

His eyes widen when he recognizes the ad. He doesn't understand. "What does this have to do with anything?" I sigh and prepare myself. Here goes everything.

"I don't have anything to submit."

He's still confused. His wrinkled forehead is unusually endearing. "I read your writing every week. Why can't you submit something from your book?"

I tap my finger at the small print on the bottom of the page. "The contest calls for completed short stories. I think that my _novel_ is longer than what the judges are looking for, and even if it were an acceptable length, it's still incomplete."

His eyes scan the advertisement with such intensity, I'm sure he's looking for some sort of loophole. "What about the short stories you've written in the past? Are any of them historical fiction?"

"Yes," I grumble, "but none of them are good enough to stand a chance in this competition. If I'm going to submit something to a writing competition, I want to be proud of it."

"Good attitude."

"I tried to write something new over the past forty-eight hours, but I kept hitting a wall after the first paragraph…"

Once I've started taking, it's easy to continue. I tell Professor Salvatore how I haven't received more than a few hours of sleep each night for the past month, how I originally planned to skip the Donovan's Band Halloween show so I could give myself more time to write but instead let Caroline talk me into playing with everyone, how all the pressure that I've let myself and others place on me this past month finally exploded a few minutes ago.

"I think you saw me at my craziest tonight," I joke. The corner of his mouth quirks upwards, but it doesn't expand into a full smile. His gaze grows distant as he becomes quiet for a moment.

"Why did you agree to submit something to this contest when you already had so much on your plate?"

_Because you told me to enter the contest and I wanted to impress you_. "Because I recognized that this competition is a great opportunity for me to jumpstart my career as a professional writer, and I knew that I would be disappointed in myself if I didn't give myself the chance to win it."

Professor Salvatore regards me with a wary look. "You're sure that's it?"

I hesitate for the briefest second. "Of course," I say. I toss in what I hope is a convincing smile. "What other reason would there be?"

Professor Salvatore studies me carefully. "I don't know." The slight tremor in his voice gives me the impression that those aren't his true thoughts, but I'm not going to call him out on his evasion. He pushes the contest advertisement to the center of the table and leans back in his chair. "So, Miss Gilbert," he says, his voice back to its usual direct tone. He pulls out his cell phone and illuminates the screen. "It's now 12:35 in the morning. The deadline for all contest entries to be submitted is in less than two-and-a-half hours. What's your plan?"

I mull over the decision. Yes, it's late, my body is screaming at me to go to my apartment and sleep for days, and I am lacking a good story for submission.

And yet, despite all of those odds that are stacked against me, when I look at Professor Salvatore and recall the confidence that he had in me when he initially told me about this competition, I still think that I can win this thing. Call me a crazy sadist, but there's still some fight in ole' Elena Gilbert.

"I want to submit something," I declare, feeling power flow through me and heat my blood. Professor Salvatore's face erupts in a knowing smile.

"Good." He stands up in his seat, walks around to my side of the table, and picks up my messenger bag. "Come on."

I dumbly stare at him as he walks down the hallway with my stuff. "What are you doing? Where are you taking my bag?"

He doesn't turn around as he unlocks his office door. "The lighting is horrible where you are compared to the lighting in my office. You'll get more done if you write in here."

"But it's your office," I stammer, still rooted in my chair. "Professor Salvatore, I can't inconvenience you like that—"

"Time's a-ticking, Miss Gilbert," he says as he strolls out with his keys in one hand and his leather jacket in the other. "What do you want from Sonic?"

My shock at his statement causes me to slam my laptop closed. "Sonic?"

"Yes, Sonic," he repeats, unplugging my laptop from the wall. "What? We need brain food to power through this thing. You didn't think I was going to let you hang out in my office by yourself, did you?"

"Seriously, Professor, you don't have to do this. I'm fine out here. At least one of us should get some sleep tonight," I protest. He ignores me, picks my laptop up, and carries it into his office. I'm still stunned by his actions as I trail behind him, watching as he sets my computer down and plugs it into the power strip underneath his desk. I open my mouth to object again, but he silences me with a stare that means business.

"Look, we're in this together, whether you like it or not," he states as he shrugs into his jacket. "Now what do you want from Sonic?"

I don't have the time to debate him further. "Can you please get me an orange cream slush and the largest size of tater tots they sell?"

He grins. "Sure thing, Miss Gilbert." And with that, he rushes out of his office.

When Professor Salvatore returns with our food twenty minutes later, Dixieland jazz music is playing softly from my laptop as I write a new exchange on the third page of my story. Professor Salvatore raps twice on the office door, then enters with a Sonic bag in one hand and a tray with two drinks in the other. The smell of greasy potatoes saturates his office as he pulls two large containers of tater tots from the bag and brings one of them to me.

"Everything going well?" he asks, hanging his jacket on the coat rack in the corner of the room.

"Very well." I fumble through my bag until I find my wallet. "How much do I owe you for the tots and drink?"

He rolls his eyes. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." He chuckles as he settles onto his couch with his drink and container of tater tots. "You have a hard time allowing others to do something nice for you, huh?"

I shrug, unwilling to admit how closely he's got me pegged. "I don't want to take advantage of anyone's generosity."

"Would be nice if all women shared your philosophy," he mutters, more to himself than to me. I pretend to ignore his statement as I pop a tot in my mouth. He recovers quickly from his thoughts and gestures towards my laptop. "You need my help with anything else?"

I glance from my computer to my food and drink to the man whose stark thoughtfulness is making my heart grow a Grinch size or two. "No, I think I'm good here."

"In that case, I'm going to camp out right here and finish some grading. Freshman midterms," he shudders, holding up a bold red pen. "I may need you to toss me another one of these."

I laugh. It feels good. "Just let me know."

"Will do."

And just like that, we work for the next ninety minutes. The keys of my laptop take a furious pounding from my fingers as I flesh out the skeleton of my story, developing my characters and adding plot points and deleting the parts that are no longer relevant to the new direction of my tale. Every so often I glance over at Professor Salvatore, who is stretched out on the couch with his head at one end and his feet at the other. He crosses out some sentences, adds punctuation to others, and writes suggestions in almost every margin. It's comforting to be in the same room as him and still be able to concentrate on my own work. It feels like our essences are collaborating to lend support to the other person, even if we aren't physically up in each other's business.

I am typing the last paragraph in my story when the clock flashes 2:30. "Professor Salvatore?" He's at my side in an instant. "Can you please read this and tell me what you think?"

We swap places in his desk chair, and I hover behind him as he scrolls through the document. "Do you always play thematically appropriate music when you write historical fiction?" he asks, presumably while reading my opening description of the bustling French Quarter in 1917 New Orleans.

"Almost always," I admit. "It helps keep me in the correct mindset."

"You actually have iTunes playlists for every decade?"

"Every decade, every music genre…pretty much every musical distinction you can think of." I notice a weak paragraph and nudge Professor Salvatore aside to improve it. "I'm very particular when it comes to the organization of my iTunes library."

He chuckles. "That doesn't surprise me."

I step back from my laptop and let him continue reading. "During my senior year of college, Matt thought it would be funny to delete all of my playlists. I didn't talk to him for a week."

"I don't understand this sentence," he says, pointing at a spot on the screen and moving so I can make changes. "You and Matt seem close."

"He's my best friend." My eyes narrow as I reread the sentence in question. "We grew up together in Mystic Falls."

"Did you date?"

"Matt? Never." I type several versions of the sentence before settling on the one I like the best. "When Matt and I first met, I told him that I'd be his girlfriend because he'd just been rejected by Amber Bradley and I didn't want him to be sad. But when he came home with me from school that day, my Aunt Jenna informed us that boyfriends and girlfriends were supposed to kiss, and that was the grossest thing either one of us could imagine."

Professor Salvatore turns around to face me, his eyes narrowed in question. "What? We were seven!" I laugh at the memory. "Anyways, Matt and I made the very mature decision that day that we should just be friends. We've been inseparable ever since."

Professor Salvatore's shoulders visibly relax as he turns back to my laptop and reads the rest of my contest submission, pointing out small edits here and there that I promptly fix. When he finishes, he gets out of his chair and lets me sit back down. "It looks good to me, but read over it once more just to be safe."

I do as he says and make several additional corrections. When I finish, the computer clock reads 2:53. "Shit," I mutter, clicking on the Firefox icon and waiting for the internet to load. I search the contest name and follow the links to the submission page. I fill out my information – name, date of birth, occupation, etcetera – and upload my story to the website. The very last thing to do is enter my credit card information, as there's a nonrefundable fee of fifty dollars that all submitting writers have to pay. As I dig through my bag for my wallet, Professor Salvatore thrusts his credit card in my face.

"Use this."

I stare at the piece of black plastic. "I can't—"

He glares at me. "You don't have time to argue with me about this one. If you feel guilty about it, you can always cop me free drinks at Donovan's."

The clock reads 2:57. With a loud sigh, I snatch the credit card from his hands and promptly enter the information. As soon as I'm finished, I take a deep breath, hover my cursor over the "Submit" button, and click.

I slump back into Professor Salvatore's chair as my body deflates with a huge sigh of relief. "I did it," I murmur. "I can't believe I did it."

Professor Salvatore wheels me around to face him. He beams at me and blinds me with his pride. "Well done, Miss Gilbert."

I stagger out of his chair and go to his couch. "I can't believe we made this happen," I gasp, falling onto the welcoming cream cushions. I release a blissful moan as I sink into their softness. When I look up, I see Professor Salvatore's mouth is drawn together in a thin line of strain. "What's wrong?"

He quickly snaps out of whatever's bothering him. "Nothing." He grins at me and moves to sit on the opposite side of the couch. "Anyone who bets against you is a fool, Miss Gilbert. Watching you rally was truly inspiring."

"I couldn't have done it without you." When he shakes his head and opens his mouth to protest, I cut him off. "I mean it, Professor. Letting me work in your office, buying the food, paying my entry fee…it was really great of you to do those things."

He shrugs. "It was nothing."

"Not to me, it wasn't."

He sighs and sinks into the couch. My eyes start to droop when his voice sounds. "We make a good team, Miss Gilbert."

I tip my head in his direction and smile. "Yeah, we do." I try to keep my eyes open but my eyelids feel heavier and heavier. "Don't let me fall asleep, okay? I'm just getting my second wind before I go home."

"I won't." He yawns. "I promise."

* * *

><p>I feel warm all over. As I float back to consciousness, I open my eyes and immediately squint. Sunlight is streaming through a large bay window and shining right into my eyes. I usually close my curtains before I go to bed so I don't have this problem in the morning, but I guess I forgot to do that when I got back to my apartment last night.<p>

As I blink, the details of my room slowly slip into sight. The wooden bookshelves look familiar. The Persian rug does not. The mahogany desk does not.

The arm wrapped tightly around my waist does not.

My heart hammers into overdrive as I freeze in place. This is not my room. This is not my bed. I glance down and see that I'm resting on a cream colored couch…one that looks eerily similar to the one in Professor Salvatore's office. My eyes race to the other end of the couch and see my Converse-clad feet touching a pair of worn motorcycle boots. At the base of the couch sits a stack of student papers that are covered with red corrections. My eyes dart around the room again and realize – with a jolt of panic – that this is Professor Salvatore's office in McKenna Hall. I take deep breaths. The familiar, masculine scent of spice and musk fills my nose. My eyes widen as they stare at the arm that is currently placing my midsection in a chokehold.

That's Professor Salvatore's arm.

Holy fuck, I spent the night in Professor Salvatore's office.

I dare to glance up at his face. He's still asleep, thank goodness. For the first time that I can remember, his face is relaxed. It's soft. Boyish. The man looks like he doesn't have a care in the world. I stay still and memorize as many details about this moment as possible. I wish he could be so untroubled when he's awake.

My admiration is short lived as my sense of self-preservation kicks in. If someone discovers us in this position, he's going to be fired and I'm going to be expelled no matter what we say in our defense. I try to strategize the best way to extract myself from the ironclad grip he has around my stomach. I slide my hand down and attempt to lift him from my waist, feeling the sweat bead on my forehead as I attempt to be as discrete as possible.

His arm refuses to budge.

What's worse, he actually _tightens _his grip on me as he lowers his head to my hair and nuzzles it.

_He probably thinks that I'm Dr. Pierce_.

The unwanted thought has the sobering effect of a cold bucket of water to my face. I _have_ to get out of here before he wakes up. He's going to freak out if he finds us like this. Hell, _I'm_ freaking out right now, and I don't have a horrid witch significant other to worry about. Since lifting his arm isn't going to work, I try to wriggle my way underneath his grip. As I move, I accidentally press my backside against his hips. I stop when I feel something…_hard_…nudge at my rear. A low moan sounds from his mouth. Oh God. Oh God, this is _so_ inappropriate…and damn it, I will not take advantage of this moment no matter how badly I want to grind myself against him and give us a morning that will be good to both of us. Plan B is _not_ going to work. I desperately try to invent a Plan C, and when I look back at Professor Salvatore's face, his eyes flutter open.

His eyelids lift with the slow and careful uncertainty of a butterfly testing its wings for the first time. I yearn to reach out and touch them, to convince myself that someone can be this breathtakingly beautiful as this man looks right now. Instead, I keep my hands in my lap as he blinks once, a second time, yawns, and then glances down at me.

I brace myself for his anger, his shock, or some other equally strong reaction. To my surprise, his sleepy expression doesn't change. His right arm stays wrapped around me as his left hand moves to stroke my cheek. He pulls away just before his skin touches mine and quickly lowers his hand. My poor heart is going to beat itself out of his chest.

"Good morning." I say my words with caution, as if Professor Salvatore is a wild animal who will spook if I do anything too swiftly.

"Good morning." His voice is still heavy with sleep, untamed and raspy and low and pretty much a wrecking ball to my lady parts. I swear I'm going to turn into a puddle of good before I leave this room.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep," I say. I keep waiting for Professor Salvatore to realize that we're in his office…together…lying on his couch. At the moment, he seems oddly content to stay put where he is with me in his arms.

I suppose there are _some_ benefits to the impropriety of our situation.

"It's okay," he murmurs. We continue to watch each other. I long to know what he's thinking. His gaze and grip on me are equally unwavering. I try to memorize every detail of his face: the few freckles on his forehead, the dissimilarities of his eyes. I wonder if he's doing the same to me. The thought sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. His arm tightens around me.

I look up at the clock on his office wall and see that it's nearing 7:30. I _really_ need to get out of here if our night together is going to go undiscovered. The last thing either of us needs is for someone to see me doing a walk of shame from Professor Salvatore's office.

"I should go," I whisper. Professor Salvatore sighs and finally looks away from me.

"Of course." He removes his arm from my waist and brings it behind his head as I sit up. I untangle my legs from his and stand. He remains where he is, looking all rumpled and fuckhot, but there's now sadness to his eyes that wasn't there before. He's probably feeling so guilty right now. Of course, his guilt only adds to my own, and I gather my things in silence, turning off my laptop and shoving it in my bag so I can leave this room as soon as possible. I throw up my ratty hair in a ponytail, sling my bag over the shoulder, and walk to the door. I take a deep breath, summon my nerves, and face him.

"So," I begin, trying to keep my voice as casual as possible, "do you still want to meet at our usual time today to work on my thesis?" It's not like I have anything new prepared given the craziness of the past two days, but Professor Salvatore's the boss in this situation.

"What? Oh…no, take the weekend off," he says, obviously distracted. My heart sinks. He can't even look at me. I feel like someone has given me a thousand tiny paper cuts and is now forcing me to take a bath in the Great Salt Lake.

I have to get out of this room before I cry again.

"Thank you, Professor Salvatore." I go to turn the knob of his door. "Enjoy the rest of your week and weekend, sir."

"Wait."

His voice stops me in my tracks. Startled, I look at him. His blue eyes bore into mine with fiery resolve.

He speaks with great deliberation, as if the words he wants to say are too heavy to leave his mouth. "I think that we've grown familiar enough with each other over the past two months – and especially after last night – to address each other by our first names. Wouldn't you agree…Elena?"

Elena.

Not Miss Gilbert, but Elena.

He wants me to call him by his first name.

Can I allow myself to cross this line of familiarity? Is it really safe for my heart to take on this level of intimacy with him?

"Yes…_Damon_."

* * *

><p><strong>I've wanted to write that last scene since I first thought of the idea for this story! It's about time these two were on a first-name basis with each other, don't you agree? I thought about splitting this chapter into two separate ones (it's twice as long as the ones I usually post, so if anyone complains about the chapter length I'm going to send Dr. Pierce AND Caroline after you), but I'm not so cruel as to make you wait an extra week for that last part <strong>

**Just a reminder: I love writing BIYE, but spitting out new chapters is not my priority. My "real life" commitments come first and will take precedence over this story until early December. If you'd like to read meatier updates, I recommend that you wait until I've posted two or three chapters and then read them all at once.**

**I'm **_**really**_** interested to hear your thoughts on this chapter (I can't imagine why…). Hope to hear from you in a review or PM! Also, does anyone have any ideas for a good Halloween costume?**


	34. Chapter 34

"Matt, I'm _dying_ here. I need your hot wings."

His chuckle echoes through the phone. "Of course you do, Elena Gilbert."

"I need them bad, Matt. Like, really, _really_ bad."

"Okay, I'm going to hang up before this wing porno of yours gets any more detailed."

My laugh turns into an abrupt cough that removes me from the conversation for several seconds. "You suck, Matt! Don't make me laugh, it hurts!"

"But I'm so funny."

"Yeah, funny-looking," I retort, immediately beset by another series of coughs. My throat's going to be in _tatters_ by the end of the night. "So you'll bring me the wings? And a Donovan's Special for my head?"

"Yeah, I'll get them to you in thirty minutes or so. Hey, your prof—"

I lose focus on Matt as I cough up my lungs – then sneeze hard enough to make my face hurt – and then sneeze twice more. I hold my phone as far away from my body as possible as I shuffle to the bathroom to blow my nose. When I throw the used tissue away, I bring my phone back to my ear.

"Please hurry, Matty."

His voice softens. "I will, Lena. You'll have your sick food soon."

Yep, I'm sick. Can't you tell? Turns out all the stress I put my body through finally caught up with me. I started feeling off after I left McKenna Hall on Friday morning, but I only had a small headache so I didn't think much of it. Unfortunately, the headache grew all afternoon, and by the time I made it home to my apartment that night, I had the shakes and a 101-degree fever. I've spent the rest of the weekend trapped in my apartment wearing nothing but Matt's oversized shirt and a pair of panties, alternatively dealing with my leaky faucet nose and a cough that would be right at home on a bubonic plague victim.

After Matt hangs up, I grab the wastebasket and box of tissues from the bathroom and plod back to the living room. I gather the layer of used tissues that dot the cushions and floor around the futon and crush them down in the wastebasket. _Gross_. Once I clean up my area, I flop back down onto the futon, cocoon myself in a heap of blankets, and press Play on the remote to resume watching _It Might Get Loud_. I always watch rock docs when I get sick. They offer me the opportunity to close my eyes and simply listen to what's being said or sung.

Unfortunately, I'm so doped up on cold meds that my head's woozy and unfocused. One minute I'm sitting upright on the futon listening to Jimmy Page talk about the skiffle and blues music that influenced him as a musician, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up in the fetal position on the area rug with five minutes left in the movie.

Also, a persistent knock sounds on the door.

I slowly push myself into a standing position as the knocks continue to pound. Each new rap punches my head and makes me wonder if someone is jackhammering in my brain. "_Please_ stop knocking, Matt," I groan as I stagger across the apartment. "I'm coming, please stop knocking, please stop—"

My pleas die as I wrench the door open and see Professor Salvatore – I mean, _Damon_ – standing in my doorway with a Donovan's bag in his hand and a concerned expression on his face.

"Professor! Err, uh, Damon!" I freeze. I'm shocked. Out of all the people I thought would be on the other side of that door, I'd stick him near the bottom of my list…maybe above Biggie Smalls or the Pope. "What are you doing here?"

His response is delayed. "Huh? Oh, well, uh…" For some reason, he's trying to look at anything _but_ me. His avoidance bruises my pride a bit. I mean, I know I look like a sick hag, but I can't look _that_ hideous, right? His eyes repeatedly glance below my waist, widen, and then dart back up. I look down at myself to see what he's staring at, and—

A garbled yelp squeaks from me as I sprint to my bedroom...you know, because Professor Damon Salvatore is standing in my doorway and oh, by the way – I'M NOT WEARING ANY PANTS.

"Shit, shit, shit," I mutter under my breath as I yank my clothing drawer open and pull out the first pair of pajamas pants I find. I hop into them, stopping every so often because the excitement fires up my cough again, and when I finally pull them all the way up my chest is throbbing and I'm freaking out. I take several deep breaths, trying (and failing) to forget about the fact that my professor decided to make a house call and happened to see me in nothing but my underwear and a t-shirt. I slowly – _coolly_, I hope – walk back into the living room.

Damon waits in the doorway. My heart drums against my ribs as I amble over to him.

"Sorry about that." I offer him an apologetic smile. "I wasn't expecting you to be on the other side of my door…at 11 o'clock on a Saturday night."

"Understandable." He looks down at my now-covered legs and smirks. "Cute pjs."

I look and see that out of all the pajama bottoms I could have chosen, I just had to grab the Powerpuff Girls pants that Caroline gave me last Christmas. _Great. How very mature of you, Elena_.

"They were a Christmas present from Caroline," I explain, looking at a spot on the carpet as I do so. "She, Bonnie, and I dressed up as them for Halloween last year."

The smirk grows. "Which one were you?"

"Blossom. The pink one."

"Right." We stand in silence in my doorway for several awkward seconds before Damon holds the Donovan's bag out to me. "Your roommate asked me to bring this to you."

"That was nice of you." I take the bag from him and sigh when the pungent aroma of Matt's hot wings wafts into my nose. "Wait, how did you know where we live?"

He shows me a crumpled napkin with writing on it. "Directions. Don't worry, it's not like I have your address memorized or anything. I'm not a creeper, I swear."

"I hope not." The giggle that accompanies my words morphs into a sudden cough. Damon snatches the bag back from my hands as I double over and hack into the crook of my elbow. I wobble as I straighten back up. "Sorry about that. I think I'm dying."

A small smile spreads across his face, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You know, when I told you to take the weekend off, I didn't exactly have this in mind."

"You know me, always doing the unexpected." I take the bag back from him. Silence falls between us again. "So, do you want to come in for a bit? The place is a huge mess and probable breeding ground for a germ infestation, and you probably want to get back to the bar, so you don't have to or anything…" I cut myself off before I make an even bigger fool out of myself than I already have tonight. Damon doesn't say anything for a bit. His brow furrows as if he's internally contemplating the offer.

I hope he says yes.

"Sure, I could stay for a bit," he finally says. He steps into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. My heart leaps, but I force my face to appear unaffected as I settle the bag on the kitchen counter and walk back to him in my living room.

"So, this is my place with Matt," I say, leading Damon around the space. "This is the living room, aka where I've parked myself for the past day and a half. Over here's the kitchen…and here's our bathroom…and Matt's and my bedrooms are at the end of the hall." I turn back to face him. "It's not much, but it's ours."

"No, it's nice." He surveys the living room. His eyes settle on the keyboard and guitar cases in the corner of the room. "It looks lived in."

"Sorry that it's so messy. I would have cleaned had I known you were coming over."

He shakes his head. "Looks fine to me."

I roll my eyes. "You're very generous, but thank you. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Damon shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on the coat rack next to the door. I head into the small kitchen and peek into the Donovan's bag. "Damn it, Matt forgot my Donovan's Special."

"What's a Donovan's Special?" I look over and see Damon eyeing the framed pictures on top of the IKEA television stand. Bonnie wheedled her then-photographer-fuck buddy to take professional shots of the band last spring. I actually look pretty badass in them.

"Oh, it's something that Matt concocted in high school the morning after we drank for the first time." I shudder thinking about the headache I had that morning. "It's disgusting, but it's pretty much the cure-all for any hangover, headache, stomachache, or any kind of illness that over the counter meds can conquer."

"Sounds powerful." He wanders over to the music corner and glides his fingers over the keyboard keys before flipping through the sheet music on the stand. "What's in it?"

I count the ingredients on my fingers. "Orange Powerade, honey, milk, tomato juice, pickle juice, and half a banana."

His nose wrinkles. "You drink _that_? Sounds like you'd get even sicker than you were when you started."

"It tastes awful, but it works every time."

He grimaces as he walks over to me in the kitchen. "Well, I don't know about this Donovan's Special, but the Salvatores have their own hangover drink that might work as a substitute. Want to take a chance on it?"

I'm skeptical. "What's in it?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Can't tell you. Salvatore family recipe." He grins at my pout. "Come on, Elena. What have you got to lose?"

"Only my stomach lining and innards," I grumble. "Nothing important."

Damon's laugh is loud and echoes throughout the apartment and makes the butterflies in my tummy flutter like crazy. He crouches down to look me straight in the eyes. "Trust me, Elena. If it doesn't work and you're still sick come Monday, I promise that I'll make it up to you."

How can I resist such an offer? "Okay."

As Damon bustles around my cabinets, I head out to the living room to straighten up. I glance at him as I work. For this being the first time in my apartment, he's really making himself at home here. I remember that he used to help his Mom cook before she died, and my breath hitches in my chest as I watch him effortlessly maneuver his way around the kitchen. When the noises from his area stop, I see him look over at me. I immediately cast my gaze elsewhere, pretending to be intently focused on tidying the stack of _Cosmopolitan_ and _Car and Driver_ magazines on the coffee table. When I glance back to him to see if he's still watching me, he whirls his head away from me and busies himself in the kitchen once more.

After several minutes of quick cleaning, I make my way over to the kitchen and peer into the blender. My face contorts into a grimace at the olive green sludge that rests at the bottom. "Okay, _that_ looks disgusting."

Damon finds a pint glass and pours the mixture into it. He offers it to me. "Bon appétit, Elena."

I peer at the goo, half expecting it to morph into a sentient creature that will strangle me in my sleep. "Do I have to?"

"Yes."

I sigh, send a small prayer to whatever gods are around, and down the drink in one gulp. It tastes strangely of banana, spinach, and cinnamon.

It tastes _delicious_.

"Okay, that was surprisingly good," I admit as Damon gives me an 'I told you so' look.

"What did you expect, I'd give you something to drink with honey and _pickle juice_?" he retorts as I place the empty glass in the sink. "Don't know what you were thinking, drinking _that_ combination all of these years."

"Hey, it worked!"

"_Pickle juice_, Elena. _Pickle juice_."

I wave his smug look away as I grab the container of hot wings out of the bag. "You like hot wings?"

"If they're good."

"Matt makes the best hot wings that I've ever tasted."

He arches an eyebrow. "And exactly how many hot wings have you tasted?"

"I'm pretty much the ultimate hot wing connoisseur, Damon. And I was going to offer to split these with you, but if you're going to be a hater—"

He swipes the wing container from me, grabs two paper plates, and marches them over to the futon. "I am _not_ a wing hater, Elena."

"Sure," I draw out the word as I pull two more glasses from the cabinets. "You okay with mango sweet tea?"

"Sounds perfect."

I pour two glasses, place the tea back in the refrigerator, and walk them over to the futon to join Damon. He takes his glass from me and sets it down on a coaster. "What were you doing before I came over here?" he asks before biting into a wing. The subtle moan that results is unexpectedly erotic enough to wet the space between my legs.

_Thank goodness I put pants on_.

I push _those_ thoughts to the side and gesture towards the pile of DVDs near the television. "Rock docs. Music documentaries," I clarify when he looks confused. "But we can watch something else."

He hesitates for a moment. "No, it's okay," he finally says, taking a drink of his tea. "I mean, there's history involved, right?"

"In some of them." I set my plate on the coffee table and walk over to look through the options. I originally planned to watch Mumford & Sons' _Big Easy Express_, but since Damon's here I think I'll show him a video that focuses on older music. I hold up a DVD. "How do you feel about Woodstock?"

"The dirty hippie music festival?"

It still baffles me how this man successfully avoided music knowledge as a History professor. "Yeah, that sounds about right." I pop the disc into the player and settle back down on the futon.

As Damon and I watch _Woodstock_ and eat our wings, I'm struck by how normal this experience feels. Sitting on the futon, eating food and watching movies are things I normally do with Matt, Caroline, Tyler, and Bonnie. It _should_ feel weird to do the same thing with my professor, right? It doesn't. I'm so comfortable right now. Not a single part of me feels uneasy about this moment – except for the tiny voice in my head that tells me I _should_ feel uneasy hanging out with my professor…in my apartment…alone. But every time I glance over at Damon to make sure that he's enjoying himself, he looks so relaxed, and it's difficult to convince myself that anything that makes him so calm is wrong. His face is free of the stress lines that usually thread through it, and he's not cringing at the surplus of music that fills the documentary.

I'm glad he's here.

I feel the meds start to kick in as my eyes droop. I try to stay awake, but it becomes more and more difficult as the occasional coughs and sneezes sap my energy. I finally decide to close my eyes and simply listen to the music, wondering why it sounds fuzzier and fainter by the minute.

Warm hands gently shake me. "Elena?"

I open my eyes and blink. Damon's face blurs in front of me. "Yeah?"

His expression is tender as he pushes a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "You fell asleep."

"No I didn't." I yawn, feeling my eyes drift shut again. Damon chuckles.

"Come on, let's get you to bed. Can you stand up?"

I let him help me to my feet. He holds me close to him as we walk down the hall towards the bedrooms. "Mine's on the right," I murmur. His right arm tightens around me as his left arm stretches to open the door. We make our way through the doorframe and he positions me to sit on the bed. I sigh and yawn again as those same warm hands tuck my legs beneath the covers and pull the comforter up to my chin.

The bed sags beneath Damon's weight. "Can I get you anything else?" he asks. His voice is so soft and comforting. I want him to read me a story, but that seems like a silly request to make.

I shake my head and curl my body. "Goodnight, Damon."

"Goodnight, Elena." He smoothes the hair back from my face again before he stands up. His footsteps grow quiet, and the door clicks shut behind him as I drift off to sleep.

The male voices in my dreams that night sound strangely like Matt and Damon. They are faint and I strain to hear them.

"You didn't have to do the dishes." Matt.

"It's no big deal." Damon.

"Well, thanks."

"No problem."

Silence.

"Okay, I've got to ask." Matt. "What are you trying to do with Elena?"

Pause. "I'm not trying to _do_ anything with Elena." Defensive Damon.

"Really? Because upping your meetings with her to twice a week, showing up at the bar and talking to no one but her, and then volunteering to deliver her food when she's sick says something completely different."

"It's not like that. She's my student."

"Maybe, but she's also Alaric Saltzman's student, and he's _never_ showed up to our apartment on a Saturday night. I don't want her to get in trouble at school because you're both overstepping your boundaries. She's worked too hard to get entangled in some student-professor fixation."

Another pause. "That won't happen."

"No, it won't."

"I mean it."

"So do I. Elena's a good person, and she deserves to get everything that she works for."

"Couldn't agree with you more, Matt."

"Then the next time that you think about making another late night visit, make sure that you have her best interests at heart."

The sound of talking is replaced by the crunch of leather. A door creaks open.

"I'm glad we had this talk."

"Not sure how necessary it was for you to play the role of the protective boyfriend—"

"—I'm not her boyfriend, and very."

"Do you want to be?"

Matt laughs. "And on _that_ note of a completely inappropriate question, I think you should go."

"So you _do_ want to date her."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't, but it's really funny how interested you are in Elena's love life. You jealous, Salvatore?"

No answer. The door closes.

What a strange dream.

* * *

><p><strong>Yipes. Has it really been almost a month since I last updated? <strong>_**So **_**sorry about that, you lovelies. I am so humbled by your support of this story. My inbox EXPLODED with your reviews last chapter and made me a very happy writer! Thank you!**

**In other unexpected and great news, my Klaroline one-shot "Wings" has been nominated for a Klaroline award in the Best Smut Fic/One-Shot category! Voting starts on 11/10 at 12pm PST. If you're so inclined, head over to "klarolineawards. tumblr .com" (spaces removed - darn you, FF formating rules) on that day and cast a vote for me, pretty please? If you haven't read Wings and find yourself intrigued about "the tattoo artist" and "the mysterious blonde who shows up at his shop", you can find it on my Author profile :)  
><strong>


	35. Chapter 35

Damon's cure-all Salvatore smoothie is a gift from the gods. Thank goodness he left the rest of his concoction in the refrigerator for me. I spent the rest of the weekend alternating between sipping that drink and stealing some extra sleep. When I woke up this Monday morning, I felt fit as Charlie Daniels' fiddle.

The day goes by faster than usual and soon it's time to meet Damon. I walk to McKenna Hall with a rare spring in my step. I'm excited to see him. Our relationship really changed this week. Accidentally falling asleep in his office and waking up in his arms…eating hot wings and watching rock docs with him…deciding to finally call each other by our first names…all of these moments give me hope that he actually trusts me and considers me his friend. This is the first time since we met two months ago that I feel like we're on equal footing with each other. His actions imply that he likes spending time with me. I hope that mine do the same…without revealing my crush on him, of course. There's nothing worse than an unrequited interest in someone. I remember crying on Matt's shoulder for a week when Harper Little didn't want to be my date to the middle school Sadie Hawkins dance. I don't want my growing feelings for Damon to become transparent.

I climb the McKenna stairs to Damon's office. When I reach the top floor and step into the hallway, I find myself unable to move as I watch Damon and Dr. Pierce laugh outside of his door. My stomach ties itself in knots as her fingers trail down his forearm and curl around his wrist.

_Hands off, bitch. He's mine_.

Apparently I'm Captain Possessive right now_._

As I slowly walk towards them, Damon's eyes catch mine. I smile at him, but his body stiffens in response. My insides clench in panic. Damn it, this isn't good. Maybe his reaction has everything to do with Dr. Pierce being present. He'll probably loosen up when it's just the two of us.

When Dr. Pierce sees me approach them, her hand slinks down Damon's hand and interlocks their fingers. She smirks at me. I want to smack the crimson lipstick off her face.

"I suppose I have to let you go now, handsome," she coos. Her devil-eyes latch onto mine. "Make it fast so we can continue the fun we had _all day yesterday_."

I clench my teeth hard enough to grind bone into dust. To make matters worse, Dr. Pierce threads her free hand into Damon's hair, yanks his head down to hers, and consumes his mouth in a heated kiss right in front of me.

I want to vomit on her designer heels. She probably wouldn't notice, seeing as her tongue is halfway down Damon's esophagus. Gag me now. Don't get me started on the supposed "fun" they had on Sunday. Damon and Dr. Pierce _better_ be closet Parcheesi addicts. I'll need to bleach my brain if I think about all the board games they probably didn't play yesterday. I want to kick both of them – Dr. Pierce for, well, being Dr. Pierce, and Damon for getting together with her the day after he hung out with me at my apartment. My brain knows that I have no claim to him and that he can do whatever he wants with whoever he wants, but try telling that to my heart. It feels betrayed.

If I listen to their makeout session any longer, I'm going to replace my blood with arsenic. I clear my throat. Damon wrenches his face away from Dr. Pierce. His eyes meet mine before they dart back to Dr. Pierce. Her lips curl into another smirk as she glances at me. I try to keep my expression neutral and fail. I hate her.

She has the nerve to wink at me. "Until tonight, Damon." She spins on her heel and walks away. Damon watches her ass wiggle. I watch him and try to ignore the hole in my stomach.

We stand in the empty hallway for an uncomfortable minute, and as the seconds pass by, my anger grows. How could he kiss her in front of me? That entire scene was rude and unprofessional and completely inappropriate. Seriously, what professor just makes out with his or her significant other in front of students? By the time Damon gets his head out of the clouds and motions for me to follow him into his office, I feel like a volcano about to erupt.

Damon settles in his desk chair. "I have some ideas about the battle in Chapter 16…"

I stare at him as he rambles on. Really? He's going to act like he didn't makeout with Dr. Pierce in front of me? He expects me to just let this go?

_Really_?

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

Damon stops talking about whatever the heck he's talking about mid-sentence. His eyes widen as he hears me swear. "Excuse me?"

"Do you play tonsil hockey in front of all your students, or am I just the lucky person who won a ticket to the free show?" I stand up as I speak, having too much energy buzzing through my body to stay still.

At least Damon has the sense to look properly chastised. "That was—"

"—incredibly inappropriate," I finish, pacing in front of his desk. "Yes, I know. In case you forgot, I was standing right there."

"I apologize if my actions made you feel uncomfortable, Miss Gilbert. I'll try to contain them to a more private location in the future."

"On behalf of polite society, I thank you," I mutter. Damon glares at me.

"I'm so glad that I have my _student's_ approval, Miss Gilbert."

I pretend to look around his office. "I'm sorry, who's Miss Gilbert? I thought we were calling each other by our first names, _Professor Salvatore_."

A pained expression flickers on his face. I feel my anger convert to nervousness as I wait for his answer. "I think that we should refrain from calling each other by our first names from now on."

The hole in my stomach grows. "Why?" I ask, my voice now a whisper.

Damon stays quiet. I want him to look at me but he avoids my gaze. "It's…it's the right thing to do," he finally says. He sounds deflated. It breaks my heart to hear him say these things that he obviously doesn't want to say.

I fill the void. "Is it?" I murmur, my voice as hollow as his. He doesn't say anything, just leans forward and scrubs his face with his hands. When he finally looks up, there's a look of determination in his eyes.

"Miss Gilbert, I respect you and your work a great deal. You're a very talented writer, and I am grateful for the opportunity to advise you on your thesis." He pauses as the lines multiply on his forehead. "With that said, however, we can't be…I mean, we aren't friends. You don't need to keep making me CDs or hang out with me at the bar. We shouldn't spend time with each other outside of an academic setting anymore."

My heartbeat slows to a dangerous pace. I don't want to believe what he's saying. I struggle to retain composure. "Did…did something happen to make you feel this way?"

"No." His answer is immediate. The suddenness of it startles me, and as I try to catch his gaze, he looks down at the carpet. "I just…I just don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about us."

"Of course not." My voice sounds empty to my ears. "I didn't know there was an idea about us to begin with."

He shrugs. "People noticed that we were spending more time together."

Venom infects my response. "Dr. Pierce?"

He shakes his head. "She would have made our lives infinitely more difficult if she thought that we shared any kind of friendship."

"According to you, we're not friends, so we shouldn't have anything to worry about." His face falls, and I crouch down to grab my bag at the foot of his desk. I wipe a hot tear from my cheek and quickly stand up. I have to get out of here before I cry in front of him _again_. "Excuse me," I say, making a beeline for the door.

"Where are you going?" He sounds panicked. "We still have plenty of time left to discuss your novel."

My chest feels as if it's about to be ripped in two. I can't face him for fear that the dam in my eyes is going to break. "I'm sorry Dam—Professor Salvatore," I quickly correct myself, "but I think I'm going to ask Alaric to advise me for the rest of the semester."

"What? Why?" He stands up so quickly that his chair dents the wall. "Miss Gilbert, just because we can't be friends doesn't mean that we can't work together on your project." He darts around the desk and positions himself in front of the door so I can't leave.

"I know."

"And you're still considering it?"

"Yes."

"Help me understand why," he says, tugging on his hair. "I need to know why, Miss Gilbert."

"Because I need to trust my thesis advisor," I snap, "and right now I don't trust you, Professor Salvatore. I'm getting whiplash from your inconsistent treatment of me. One day you offer me your office at three in the morning and say that we've grown familiar enough to address each other by our first names, the next you insist that we're not friends and we need to stop spending time together. I know that no matter what kind of time we spend together, I'm going to try to be your friend because you're brilliant and sharp and so insightful that you give me a run for my money, but I can't enter our weekly sessions with the fear that you'll clam up if I ask you about anything other than my book. I'm not afraid of the way our friendship grew this past week but you obviously are, and if you're so willing to discount it, I don't know if I can trust your judgment on this seminal work of my academic career. The best way for me to honor your wishes is to have as little contact with you as possible, so I ask that you please respect this decision."

I turn to leave, but his hand grabs mine and holds me in place. "I'm trying to do right by you," he pleads, his blue eyes finally locking with my brown ones. "Donovan told me to keep your best interests at heart, and that's why I'm doing this."

"Donovan," I repeat, slipping my hand from his grasp. "My roommate, Matt Donovan?" A conversation from a recent dream flashes in my head.

_"…it's not like that. She's my student..."_

_"… Alaric __never__ showed up to our apartment on a Saturday night… I don't want her to get in trouble at school because you're both overstepping your boundaries... the next time you make another late night visit, have her best interests at heart..."_

I stumble backwards in shock. "You and Matt talked on Saturday night." Damon's silence tells me everything I need to know. I shove my hands in my hair. "I thought that was a dream."

Damon's voice is small. "Some of the stuff he said makes sense."

I shake my head, angry once again. "You are both _idiots_." I've had enough. I wrench his door open, pushing all the ways I want to castrate Matt to the back of my head. I whirl back around and see Damon watching me with a distraught expression. I care, but not enough to quell my fury. "You know, _Professor Salvatore_, you'd enjoy your life a lot more if you started making decisions for yourself instead of doing what others tell you to do. I'm really disappointed in you right now."

On that note, I storm away from his office and down the hall, feeling his eyes linger on me every step of the way. I don't look back. I won't give him that satisfaction. I'm so furious and hurt that I could spit.

I briefly consider going back to my apartment to wait for Matt there, but as soon as I step outside I make a beeline towards Bar Street. I usually prefer to avoid confrontation, but not this time. Matt and I need to have words _immediately_. I can't believe that he interfered in my life this way. Who the hell does he think he is, telling Damon to back off from me? Shouldn't that be my decision to make? Just because we happen to be roommates and best friends doesn't mean that he gets to run my life whenever he feels like it.

When I reach Donovan's, I shove the door open and storm inside. The place is empty save for a few older men dressed in suits and Matt, who's cleaning glasses behind the bar. His smile when he sees me is short-lived. I'm assuming that's because I'm wearing an expression that says how much I want to tear out his liver at the present moment.

"What happened?" he asks, setting down the glass and dish rag in his hands.

"_You did_," I grit through clenched teeth. "We need to talk. _Now_."

"Can it wait until tonight? I've got customers—"

"—no, _Matthew_, this cannot wait." I march over to the hallway that leads to his office and hear him mumble a hasty apology to his customers before following me. Instead of ducking into his office, I allow us to stay in the hallway so Matt can keep an eye on the bar...you know, because I'm feeling _so_ gracious right now.

Matt crosses his arms. "What's got you so worked up?"

"Tell me _exactly_ what you said to Damon on Saturday night," I demand, clenching my fingers into fists. A mixture of relief and smugness crosses Matt's face, fanning the flames of my anger even more.

"I'm guessing he backed off?" My silent glare confirms my answer. Matt chuckles. "Good. I don't like him."

"You had no right to interfere with our relationship," I seethe, resuming the pacing I did in Damon's office. "I didn't like the fact that you slept with Aimee Bradley for the first year that we lived in Atlanta, but I didn't sabotage that for you."

"Yeah, that's because Aimee Bradley wasn't a creepy older man who took an unhealthy interest in his student—"

"—becoming friends with someone does not mean that there's an unhealthy interest involved, Matt!" I exclaim, throwing my hands up in the air. "And finding an unexpected connection with someone is not creepy. _Damon_ is not creepy. He's reserved and he doesn't trust easily, but I think that being forced to play second fiddle to his music prodigy brother after his mom died gives him every right to be that way!"

"Yeah, and despite the fact that he's already in a relationship with the hottest woman on campus, he still goes out of his way to spend alone time with you, his _student_, who happens to be seven years younger than him. Don't lie to me and say that you wouldn't be concerned if you saw Caroline or Bonnie doing the same thing!"

"Bonnie can handle herself," I mutter, slightly taken back by his words. He's not right. He can't be right. Damon's different.

Matt frowns. "That's not my point and you know it, Elena." He pauses. "Look, I'm not going to apologize for talking to your professor. From where I stand, the guy is using you as an emotional crutch to deal with all of the shit in his life, and you're letting him get away with it. I don't know if you feel uncomfortable saying anything because he's your professor or if you're trying to befriend another lost soul the same way you did me or if you legitimately care about this guy. Either way, the two of you were starting to walk a fine line between appropriate and getting kicked out of school."

My voice trembles. "I legitimately care about him, Matty. He's like us, you know? He's gone through so much, but he didn't have someone to help him through it like we had each other."

Matt takes my hands in his. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want you to be expelled and have all of your hard work towards your book go to waste because someone saw something about you and the professor that he or she didn't like."

I sigh. "Well, you don't have to worry about me because Damon took your stupid words to heart. He just told me that we aren't friends and that we can't hang out outside of an academic setting anymore. I told him that he couldn't be my advisor anymore if I can't trust him to treat me and my work consistently."

"Wow, Lena. That's…" Matt's voice trails off as his blue eyes search mine. "That took guts."

"Also told him that he'd probably enjoy life more if he stopped letting other people tell him what to do."

The corner of Matt's mouth twists into a wry grin. "You'd do well to take your own advice. Pretty sure the reason you got sick is because you tried to do Caroline's bidding on top of your own."

"How about you tell me how much of a hypocrite I am when I'm feeling less defeated, okay?" I mutter. Matt barks a short laugh as he tugs me into a hug. His heat is mildly comforting, but it also makes me yearn for the morning after Halloween. As I lean into his chest, another memory from my "dream" flashes to me. I look up at Matt with a raised eyebrow.

"Did you _really_ have to turn into a caveman and let Damon think that you want to date me?" I demand, stepping out of his embrace. "Oh God, you didn't mean it, did you?"

Matt rolls his eyes. "Sorry, Lena. I know you want a piece of this glory," he says, gesturing towards his apron-clad body, "but I don't think I could get sexy with you after seeing you choke when trying to deep throat a hot dog."

"A gnat flew down my throat!" I protest, slapping his arm as he mimics my bug-eyed expression from that fateful day in ninth grade. "And it was a dare!"

"Sorry babe, but I just can't have you gagging on my junk."

"Pretty sure your junk's not big enough for anyone to gag on," I retort, laughing at the insulted look on Matt's face. As he opens his mouth to retaliate, I extend my hand out to him. "Truce?"

He sighs. "Truce." We shake, and his eyes dart over to the bar. A new group of college students have settled down and are looking around, presumably for Matt. He turns back to me. "I should probably go take care of those kids," he says.

I nod. "Go. It's okay. We're cool here. I'll see you at the apartment tonight."

He exhales a visible sigh of relief. He turns to walk away, but stops and pivots back to face me. "You know that things always work out for the best, right?"

I shrug. "We'll see what happens." He offers me a small smile before walking back to the bar.

I avoid McKenna Hall for the rest of the week. I also avoid the paperwork that marks Alaric as my new advisor. I know that Damon's knowledge is a better match for my novel, but I don't think I can be around him and not be his friend. Is it worth it to try? Should I ignore the way my heart beats whenever I spent time with him and force us to keep our conversations professional because that's what he wants? Should I continue to stand my ground and insist that if he doesn't want to be friends, we can't spend any time together? I'm so torn between wanting to protect him and needing to protect myself. I really want to believe Matt's words that everything's going to work out, but I think that our ideas of what's best in this situation drastically differ from one another.

The hole in my stomach grows when I don't go to my Thursday session with Damon or see him in the Donovan's crowd at our Saturday night gig. Elijah looks at me with sympathy, but I plaster a smile on my face and pretend like everything's okay. At one point I think I see him in the crowd, but it turns out that Alaric's talking to another colleague.

I don't feel like being social after the show, so I walk back to the apartment by myself and text Matt that I've made it home safely. As I walk up the stairs, I dig my keys out of my clutch. When my door comes in sight, I stop.

The most beautiful flower arrangement I've ever seen in my life rests at the foot of the door. Sunset-colored tulips are artfully scattered amongst stargazer lilies and orchids. There must be at least three dozen flower stems stuffed into the clear glass vase. I crouch down and inhale, savoring their fresh scent. I back away and search for a note to see who these flowers are intended for. I can't imagine why anyone would send either Matt or I flowers.

A small envelope lays propped against the door with_** Elena**_ written on it in familiar script. My heart races as I sit cross legged in the middle of the apartment hallway. I open the envelope with steady fingers and remove a pastel card. My eyes read the brief note.

_**Elena,**_

_**Please accept these flowers as my inadequate apology for the deplorable way I treated you on Monday. **_

_**I'm not worthy of another chance to be a part of your life, but I nonetheless hope that you'll find it in your heart to give me one. Please allow me to continue collaborating with you as your thesis advisor. More importantly, I want to continue spending time with you as your friend. Your compassion knows no bounds, and you're patient with me despite the fact that I don't deserve it. I was a fool to think that I'd be better off without you and your eternal goodness.**_

_**Damon**_

_**P.S: I remember that your band played several Dr. Dog songs during your previous performances at Donovan's. Please enjoy their show with a friend on me. **_

I slump against my apartment door. Damon's note? Yeah, I'm speechless. No one's ever made such a grand gesture towards me before. I read his words at least three more times, feeling my heart beat with the hope I thought I'd lost last week.

My eyes latch onto the mention of a Dr. Dog show. What is he talking about? I shake the envelope and two rectangular pieces of paper flutter to the floor. I pick up one and read it.

**DR. DOG**

**HEAVEN STAGE AT MASQUERADE**

**FRI NOV 16 2012 8:00 PM**  
><strong>GENERAL ADMISSION $25.00<strong>

My mouth drops open. Damon Salvatore, a man who proclaims to not know or like anything about music, bought me tickets to a concert? I pinch myself in the arm because I _must_ be dreaming.

I balance the vase of flowers in one arm and grab the card and concert tickets in my free hand. After I clumsily unlock my apartment, I rush to my bedroom to set the flower bouquet down on my nightstand. I flop down on my bed and stare at the note and tickets in my hand. My brow furrows as I think about what to do. Sure, Damon's gesture is incredibly nice, and his note seems heartfelt. My heart wants to believe him when he says that he wants to be friends with me, but my head warns me to not trust him after he flaked out on me before.

I spend the rest of the weekend debating between my options. Before I go to bed on Sunday night, I turn on my laptop and craft a brief email.

_**From: Elena Gilbert  
>To: Damon Salvatore<br>Sent: Sun 11/11/2012 1:37 AM  
>Subject: Thank You<strong>_

_**I'll see you at the usual time on Monday.**_

_**P.S: Leave the night of the 16**__**th**__** open.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Greetings, friends! Thank you to everyone who voted for "Wings" in the Klaroline awards – it won! <strong>

**The good news: I submitted all of my Ph.D. program applications, so I have more free time to write. **

**The bad news: The final for my class is due on Thursday, so I need to spend this week preparing my portfolio. **

**The "I need your help" news: next semester I'm completing a Capstone Project on fanfiction – what it is, why people read and write it, etc. Would any of you be willing to be interviewed or answer a questionnaire (or several) about your experiences with fanfiction to help me out? If so, please leave me a review or send me a message with a way for me to get in touch with you (PM, email, etc.). I'd be more than happy to explain more about the project if you're on the fence and want more information.**

**- Amy**


	36. Chapter 36

I step off the city bus and look across the street at The Masquerade. The venue, formerly a turn-of-the-century excelsior mill building, looks like a shack that's going to collapse any minute. I personally think its neon purple sign, peeling black paint, and shaky floors add to its eclectic charm. Who wouldn't want to go to a concert and worry if the ceiling's going to cave on you because the people in the Hell room upstairs are moshing?

_Oh, I don't know...Damon Salvatore?_

I frown as I scan the parking lot for him and his Camaro. He offered to pick me up at my apartment, but I asked him to meet me here because I was "already going to be on this side of town" to "pick up some things". I think he knew I was lying, but he didn't call me out on it. We've tiptoed around each other all week ever since we made an unspoken agreement to give our friendship another shot. I hate feeling like we can't be upfront with each other, but I definitely think that I need to raise my guard around him for the sake of my poor heart. I shouldn't have felt like a jilted lover when he and Dr. Pierce kissed in front of me (and even I internally refer to as Smoochfest 2012: Clash of the Tongues). My head knows chances are slim to none that Damon and I will ever be in the position to date each other. My heart, on the other hand, needs to accept that fact. I really do think that we can be friends with each other, but if I truly want this to happen, I need to stop thinking of myself as his potential girlfriend.

If that means I have to take a forty minute bus ride across Atlanta to The Masquerade so Damon can't pick me up and trigger me to internalize this night as a faux date, then so be it.

I spot his blue Camaro as I walk down the line of assorted cars. The outline of his unruly hair creates a wild silhouette that makes me smile. I approach the driver's side door and rap my knuckles on the window.

He jumps so high, his head bangs on the car ceiling. I can't help but laugh. I pinch my lips shut when Damon glares at me through his window.

"Give a guy some warning, will you?" he grouses as he rubs the top of his head. I step away from the Camaro and hold up my hands in a gesture of peace.

"I'm here?" I offer, amused at the way Damon massages his head when he steps out of his car. I try to keep my features straight, but the corners of my mouth turn up no matter how contrite I try to look. He rolls his eyes in what I assume is his attempt to look exasperated, but it's mere moments before a smile graces his face as well.

"Life's never boring with you around, is it?" he murmurs, shaking his head. His voice is so low that I can't tell if he's talking to me or to himself. I decide to bypass his comment.

"How's the head?"

He shrugs. "I've had worse bumps." His eyes scan the surrounding area. "Where's this Masquerade place?"

I point to the decrepit building to our right. "There."

His face pales, even in the light of the parking lot lamps. "_There?_" He slumps against his Camaro. "There's no way that building is a legal concert venue."

"Damon, I've been to a ton of shows here," I say. "Do I look worse for the wear?"

"No, but you're used to doing this music stuff for fun." His chest heaves with deep breaths as he eyes the building with suspicious eyes. A realization jolts me: he is _terrified_ to attend this concert.

I mentally smack myself for my thoughtlessness. Damon's note, flowers, and concert tickets excited me so much that I automatically invited him to the Dr. Dog show with me. I didn't even consider if _he_ wanted to voluntarily spend his Friday night at a concert at a venue that looks like the Grim Reaper's personal cubbyhole. Hell, I probably forced him to remember some of his more unpleasant childhood memories when I told him to keep tonight open and meet me here.

I am such a moron.

"Damon," I say in a soft voice. I reach out and place my hand on his forearm in attempt to calm him. His panic-saturated eyes drop down to the place where our bodies touch, then lift back up to meet mine. "We don't have to go in there. We can get back in your Camaro and drive away from here at any time."

Frustration replaces the fear in his eyes. "You're not missing your concert because I'm a dysfunctional idiot, Elena."

"You're not a dysfunctional idiot, Damon—"

"No? Then why can't I just walk into that building like all of those other people?" he mutters, gesturing at the people in the line. His shoulders sag. "You should have asked someone normal to come with you tonight."

"I've always considered 'normal' a subjective description."

He kicks a rock on the ground. "You know what I mean."

As silence looms between us, I rack my brain for another approach to getting Damon into The Masquerade. An idea pops into my head. I cross my arms and level him with a stare. "Alright, Damon. You say I should have asked someone normal to come with me tonight? Now's your chance to be normal."

Confusion clouds his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"You want to be normal?" I release one arm and gesture to the concert venue across the street. "Pull yourself together and walk into that building with me."

His eyes widen. "But I…I mean, I…you want me to…I just…"

I re-cross my arms and eye him. "Look, you're never going to get over your discomfort with music if you continue to avoid it. Tonight's concert is very similar to the Donovan's Band shows that you sit through every weekend; the only differences are that you're in a different location and are seeing a different band. Now, I know I said that we can get back in your Camaro and drive away, but I've been looking forward to this show all week, and I am not going to waste the tickets that you so generously bought me."

"So," I continue, uncrossing my arms, "as soon as I stop talking, I'm going to walk across the street and get in line for the show. I hope you join me." I unzip my clutch, pull out one of the two tickets, and hand it to Damon. Our eyes meet at the same time as our hands. It takes a lot of strength to not give into the electric hum that passes between us and take back everything I just said, but I slip my hand out of his grasp. Without another word, I spin on my heel and walk towards The Masquerade, feeling Damon's glance burn into my back the entire time.

I force myself to stare at anything but the parking lot when I stand at the end of the line. I will not glance at Damon. I really wish that he was standing next to me in line, but I can't force him to do anything that he doesn't want to do. If he really wants to face his fears about music, he needs to be the one to take the next step to experience it.

As the line shuffles forward, my heart hurts with every step that Damon's not with me. I second-guess my tough love approach. I berate myself for not inviting someone else to join me. I wonder if Damon only accepted my invitation because he didn't want to further upset me. These unwanted thoughts snowball on top of each other as I step closer to the door, and I bite my lip to keep my tears at bay.

When I'm two people away from the ticket-taking bouncer, I hear a small chorus of "What the fuck?!"s and "We were here first!"s roar behind me. I look over my shoulder and see Damon walk past the angry-looking line behind me to my side.

I try to offer an apologetic look to the people behind us, but the grin on my face is so wide that my cheeks feel like they'll split. I then remember that I'm trying to temper my feelings for this man, and my smile shrinks to a normal size. "Glad you could make it."

Damon shrugs. "I looked pretty dumb standing in the parking lot by myself." His lips quirk into what looks like a sheepish smile. I return it before the bouncer tears the stubs off our tickets and we walk into The Masquerade.

The place and people are as grungy as they were when I came here with Bonnie six months ago. Low ceilings with exposed wood beams make the space feel condensed. Blood-red lights sparsely dot the walls and create an ominous glow. The place is packed, and raucous chatter fills the room.

I turn back to Damon, whose neck is craned as he looks around the space with wide eyes. I place my hand on his arm to get his attention.

"Stay close to me, okay?"

He nods. The heat of his presence warms me as I lead us to Heaven, the room of the concert. I recognize that Damon might need a quick escape if things get too dicey for him, so I settle us against the back wall of the room. I shrug out of my jacket and drape it over my arm before gesturing to the bar.

"Drink?"

Damon looks at the bottles of alcohol for a moment and shakes his head. "I think I want my head clear for tonight, but I'll get you something."

"Thanks, but I can buy it myself," I say, but he's already taking his wallet out of his pocket. "Damon, you bought the tickets. I can buy my own drink."

He brushes me off with his free hand. "My father raised Stefan and I with the belief that a woman in our company should never buy her own drink."

_Get yourself together, Elena. This is not a date._ "Are you sure?"

He gives me a narrowed look that shuts me up. "You like beer, right? Any type in particular?"

I eye the row of beers on tap before glancing up at Damon. "Surprise me."

Five minutes later, Damon returns to me with a beer in one hand and water in the other. I take the glass from him and sip the top. Nutmeg and cinnamon flavors dance across my tongue. I look over at Damon. "Terrapin Pumpkinfest?"

He releases a low whistle. "Damn, you're good."

I take a larger sip and hum in appreciation of the pumpkin-y goodness. "When Matt and I started socially drinking in high school, he told me that no way in hell would he and I drink the 'piss-water' beer that everyone else was drinking. He stole two cans of Guinness that someone managed to sneak from their Dad's study and we drank our first beers together."

His eyebrow raises. "Your first beer was a Guinness?"

"Yep. Ruined me for life," I whisper as the lights dim and the members of Dr. Dog walk onto the stage. As the dense room hollers for the group, Damon visibly stiffens. I swipe his glass of water from his hand before it drops to the ground. His jaw clenches as his eyes lock on the band. I can only imagine what memories are filtering through his mind right now.

"Damon," I say loudly, trying to get his attention. I call his name several times before he finally tears his glance away from Dr. Dog. "Focus on me, Damon. Look at me, not at the band." I stand with my back against the wall and position him an arm's length in front of me so his back faces the stage. He can't see the musicians unless he turns around.

Damon stares at me with such desperation in his eyes, I feel like I'm the life preserver to his man overboard. "Elena, I don't know if—"

"Don't even go there, Damon Salvatore," I warn. As the band's distinctive psychedelic rock sound begins to sound, I'm reminded of the Woodstock documentary Damon and I watched together. An idea slowly forms in my head.

"Close your eyes." His head tilts to the side but he does as I ask. The lyrics to 'Shadow People' fill the air.

_The rain is falling, it's after dark_

_The streets are swimming with the sharks_

_It's the right night for the wrong company  
>And there ain't nothing 'round here to look at<br>Move along, move along_

"Dr. Dog is influenced by a particular decade of music," I say, taking a sip of my beer. "Can you tell me what it is?"

Damon's eyes fly open. "You know I don't know anything about music."

"Close your eyes!" I yelp, biting back a smile when Damon's eyelids squish shut again. "You know more about music then you realize, Damon. Think about the documentary we watched when you brought me food from Donovan's."

"Woodstock?"

I nod, more for my benefit than his. "Do you remember any of the musicians that played at Woodstock?"

His forehead wrinkles. "Jimi Hendrix, right? The guy who played 'The Star Spangled Banner'?"

"Who else?"

"Uh…that Joplin chick…the band that has the Ben and Jerry's flavor named after the lead…Santana?"

I laugh. "Amongst others, yes. Do you remember any of their songs?"

He cracks one eye open and gives me a stern look. "'The Star Spangled Banner'?"

"Okaaay, did anything about their music stand out to you?"

The lines in Damon's brow grow deeper. "That Joplin chick's voice sounded like she had gravel in her throat when she sang, but Jimi's voice was fuller."

"That's exactly what I thought when I first heard them!" I exclaim, receiving glares from the people around me. I mouth 'Sorry' to them before looking back at Damon. "Did you know that Jimi Hendrix didn't like the sound of his own voice?" I ask in a lowered voice. "According to the guitarist of the Rolling Stones, Ronnie Wood, Jimi thought that he couldn't sing well. He liked his guitar-playing a lot more than he liked his vocals."

"Huh."

"Greatest electric guitarist of his time and he felt insecure about his own singing," I muse, momentarily lost in thought. When I come to, I see Damon observing me. "What?"

"It's nothing." A smile plays on his lips. "You do realize that you could probably be a professor of music history as easily as you could be one of creative writing, yes?"

I shrug, though the notion makes itself comfortable in my head. "I've never really given it much thought. I've always considered music nothing more than a hobby. It didn't belong in my academics, you know?"

"Aren't you always telling me how music and history are intertwined subjects?" he teases. Laugh wrinkles form around his eyes as the rest of his face brightens. It's astounding how the stress that characterized his earlier façade is starting to vanish.

If I think Damon's handsome now, God knows how ungodly attractive he'd be if he looked this happy all the time.

I laugh at his jest. "Oh, _now_ you listen to me! I should've known it would only be to toss my words back in my face!"

"You should really try to not make so much sense, Elena."

"I'll get right on that, Damon." He chuckles as I roll my eyes, and for the first time tonight, everything is perfect.

Damon and I continue to face each other during Dr. Dog's next couple of songs, quietly chatting our way through 'Hang On', 'That Old Black Hole', and 'Do the Trick'. When the band plays the opening notes of 'The Beach', I squeal. Damon cocks his eyebrow at me.

"Squealing, Elena? Really?"

"Hey, this is the first song I ever heard by them!" I defend. "It's so gritty and raw and the music makes me wanna do naughty things even though the lyrics are really depressing..."

"Naughty things?" Damon repeats, grinning devilishly at me as I clap my hands to my mouth, realizing what I've just blurted. _Damn you, second beer! _I open my mouth to correct myself, but Damon cuts me off. "I think I'd better pay special attention to this song."

My face flares with mortification as he turns around and faces the stage for the first time tonight, smirking the entire time. The bassist growls into the microphone.

_The memories we've buried have now taken seed  
>When spring time comes they'll turn into weeds<br>And they'll creep through your window to smother your dreams  
>You know fate has a funny way of comin' around<em>

Halfway through the song, Damon dips his head to mine. "You know, if I wanted to...how did you phrase it..._do naughty things_ with music playing in the background, I'm not sure that this song would make it on my playlist." His breath tickles the shell of my ear and makes me shiver.

_Not a date, Elena. Not a date, not a date, not a date_.

"Well, you can make your own _Naughty Things_ playlist," I murmur, wondering if my voice sounds as shaky to him as it does to me. Holy wet panties, it is hot in here or is it me?

The vibrations from Damon's chuckle into my ear do _nothing_ to help my below-the-belt situation. "Do _you_ have a _Naughty Things_ playlist, Elena?"

"That's classified information."

"Tell me what's on it."

I scoff and step away from Damon to quell the way that my heart is about to beat out of my chest. "Nope."

He pouts. "Not even one song?"

I cross my arms and attempt to glare at him. "Not even."

He scans my face before smirking at me. "I'll find out one way or another. You know that, right?"

"No one but me knows what's on that playlist, if it even exists—"

"—oh, it exists—"

"—and if you're considering some crazy alternative plan that involves you breaking into my apartment just to look at my iTunes playlists, you should really reevaluate your life," I finish with a smirk. Damon taps his finger on his chin.

"You haven't even told Caroline?"

I laugh. "You really think I'd tell the biggest blabbermouth of my friends anything I wouldn't want to be public knowledge? I told you, if such a playlist exists, I'm the only one who knows its contents."

"For now," Damon adds in an ominous voice.

"For always." He winks at me before turning back to the stage as Dr. Dog launches into 'The Breeze'.

We stand and listen to the rest of the show without incident. I point out some of my favorite instrumental choices and Damon makes fun of an unusual lyric or two, and before I know it, Dr. Dog is returning to the stage for an encore performance.

"This would sound much cooler on a banjo," the lead guitarist says before he begins picking the intro to a very familiar song. I gasp. My hands shoot out to grab something to steady me.

"Elena, what's wrong?" When I glance away from the stage, I see Damon looking at me with a concerned expression.

"They're covering my favorite Avett Brothers song," I whisper, practically speechless from giddy shock.

"Who are—"

"—I'll tell you later, just listen," I say as the guitarist begins to sing.

_Well, you send my life a'whirling  
>Darling when you're twirling<br>On the floor  
>Who cares about tomorrow?<br>What more is tomorrow  
>Than another day?<br>When you swept me away  
>Yeah, you swept me away<em>

I mouth every word, melting into the music of one of my all-time favorite songs. Every time I hear 'Swept Away', I think it sounds like the musical embodiment of pure love. Dr. Dog is performing the sentimental version of the song, but my heart's racing as if I were listening to an upbeat tune.

_Well, life is ever changing  
>But I will always find a constant<br>And comfort in your love  
>With your heart my soul is bound<br>And as we dance I know  
>That heaven will be found<em>

I feel something soft curl around my hand. When I look down, I see Damon's fingers curve around mine.

I grabbed Damon's hand to steady myself when Dr. Dog began to play 'Swept Away'.

Damon didn't let go of my hand.

Damon Salvatore is holding my hand.

My eyes dart up to meet his, and when they do, the expression on his face is so tender that it makes my blood crackle like a Fourth of July sparkler. Damon's looking at me like I'm the most precious thing in his world. His expression is equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Am I reading it correctly? Does my expression reflect the feelings of apprehension and excitement that duel within me every time this man and I are in the same room together?

I remain frozen, scared that he'll startle if I move away from him. He stays similarly still, moving for nothing than to give my hand a gentle squeeze. Our eyes stay fixed on each other for the remainder of the song, breaking contact only when the music fades to a close. Our hands slip out of each other's grasp. My heart aches at the loss of his touch.

We don't speak to each other for the rest of Dr. Dog's encore, nor do we talk as we file out of The Masquerade and walk towards the parking lot. I occasionally chance a glance up at Damon as we walk, but every time we make eye contact I look away. I feel him staring at my profile, but if I turn to look at him his head jerks forward.

I slow my pace as we approach the bus stop and break the quiet that looms between us. "Thank you for the tickets, Damon. Tonight was fun."

"Yeah, it was alright," he agrees. His neutral expression droops to a frown as he observes the bus sign to my left. "Why are you stopping here?"

"This is the bus I need to take to get back to the apartment."

"No way. Come on, I'll drive you home."

Damon goes to walk towards his car, but I stand my ground. "I appreciate your offer, but I really think that I should take the bus tonight."

"Elena," he sighs, running his fingers through his dark hair, "it's only a ten minute drive from this place to your apartment."

"I don't mind."

"And I've got at least three seats you can choose from in my Camaro. You'll be lucky if you even get a seat on the bus since there are so many people taking it."

My heart hurts at the pleading tone of his voice, but I have to stand my ground. "Damon, do you still trust me?"

He stops. "Yes."

"Then please trust me when I say that I truly think that me getting on this bus is the best way for us to end our evening together," I slowly say. Hurt flashes in his eyes, and I rush to appease him. "I've ridden this bus plenty of times before. I'll be safe, and I'll see you at our meeting on Monday, okay?"

"I still don't like this."

"I know, but I really appreciate the way you trust me to make this decision."

He harrumphs. "Can I see your phone?"

"My phone?" I rummage around my pocket and pull out the device. He takes it from my hand and pushes several buttons. As he hands it back to me, I hear his phone buzz. He removes it from his pocket and looks at the screen with a satisfied expression.

"Can you at least text me when you're safely in your apartment?"

I fight to keep my mouth from falling open at his gesture. "We have each other's phone numbers?"

He looks at a spot on the ground. "Yeah, well, I figured that with it being less than a week until Thanksgiving, we should have another way of staying in touch with each other. You know, to talk about your novel and such."

"That's a good idea."

Silence settles between us once more. Damon clears his throat. "So, yeah, text me when you get home, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

We stand awkwardly at the bus stop for several minutes. Damon eventually bobs his head at me, turns around, and briskly walks in the direction of his car. I watch his retreating figure until I hear the bus arrive several seconds later.

The bus drops me off around the corner from my apartment forty minutes later. I go through the gate, walk up the stairs, and let myself into my place. The lights are dim because Matt's still at the bar. I don't bother to turn them on as I grab my phone from my jacket pocket and hang it up. I pad to my room and flop on my bed. The twin thuds of my shoes hitting the ground sound as I look at my phone screen. I go to Contacts and scroll down until I find Damon's name.

**Elena: **_**Back at the apartment. Thanks for the great night. I hope you enjoyed the show.**_

I've barely undressed and redressed into my pajamas when my phone beeps with a new text.

**Damon: **_**Even music is enjoyable when you're around. Glad you made it back safely. Sleep well, Elena. **_

My heart pounds. _Don't overreact. Tonight was not a date_.

My self-reproaches don't stop me from changing my ringtone to 'Swept Away' before I go to sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>Season's greetings, readers! I've been bogged down by various distractions, so apologies for not posting this update sooner. I hope that everyone is doing well!<strong>

**As I mentioned in my AN last chapter, next semester I'm completing a Capstone Project on fanfiction – what it is, why people read and write it, etc. Would any of you be willing to be interviewed or answer a questionnaire (or several) about your experiences with fanfiction to help me out? If so, please leave me a review or send me a message with a way for me to get in touch with you (PM, email, etc.). I'd be more than happy to explain more about the project if you're on the fence and want more information. Thanks to everyone who's already volunteered to assist me!**


	37. Chapter 37

I twirl my hair around my finger and reposition myself on the couch in Damon's office. As I tuck my legs underneath me, I watch him read from the red binder I gave him an hour ago. It holds the last three chapters in my novel. I wrote them in my bedroom this past weekend. When I typed the last word of the story, I felt a huge weight lift from my shoulders I exhaled air from my lungs. This story is by far the most ambitious academic project I've ever worked on; I've spent the better part of this year researching and writing it. I know that I have to revise the story a lot before I submit it to the University of Atlanta Graduate Academic Board and to various publishing companies, but it's such a relief to have finally completed the novel's working draft.

The nervousness I feel as I watch Damon's eyes scrutinize every word on all seventy-eight pages I handed him is a far cry from that earlier relief. He holds a red pen in his hand and makes liberal use of it, circling words and underlining sentences and writing so many notes in the margins that I can barely see the original text.

When he reaches the final pages, however, his pen falls to the carpeted floor. He looks up at me with wide eyes. "This isn't the right ending!"

I cross my arms, irritated with what I feel is a hasty conclusion. "Read the rest of the story before you judge the ending, okay? Please?" A scowl forms on his lips but he turns his narrowed eyes back to the page. The scowl doesn't leave his face as he continues to read, and when he closes the binder with a harsh slam, I brace myself for his reaction.

"You still don't like the ending?"

With the way that Damon glares at the binder, I'm grateful that his eyes aren't laser beams. I think he'd incinerate those pages if he could. "Why would you spend an entire book developing the relationships between Stephen, James, and Anne if she's not going to end up with either one of them?"

"She's choosing herself!" I defend. "She chooses to end her engagement to Stephen because she doesn't feel as strongly for him as she did when they first met, and she doesn't want to get together with James immediately after because she doesn't want the townspeople to think poorly of her."

"So she's going to deny herself and James the happiness they feel together because she's scared to be called names?" Damon scoffs. "That's a bitch move."

"This story isn't about a love triangle between Anne and the two Whitmore brothers, Damon. It's about the relationship between James and Stephen and how it changes as a result of the war—"

"—maybe it started off that way, but James and Stephen's relationship also changes as a result of Anne's treatment of them," Damon asserts. "They choose to fight for the Confederacy because they want Anne to see them as heroes. They agree to stick together and protect each other, but Stephen fakes his own death and sneaks home to Anne because he can't handle the pressure of being a soldier. James becomes so determined to avenge Stephen's death that he loses his arm in the process of becoming a Colonel, then returns home to discover that Stephen is not only alive, but has taken up with the love of his life?"

Damon stretches his legs in his spot at the opposite end of the couch. "Can't the guy have at least something go right for him?"

"I get what you're saying, but I don't want to end the story with _everything's roses_ and _life is great_ clichés. People don't always get the girl, and the fact that Anne doesn't choose to be with either brother gives the Whitmore boys the chance to recover together."

"If that's the case, then you need to give your readers a hint of that recovery," Damon says. "The book ends on a really bleak note because it focuses on Anne's indecision."

"But it's not indecision," I insist. "She made a decision. Choosing no one is still a decision."

"I'm not invested enough in Anne to accept your reasoning that 'she chose herself'. Her lack of choice comes across as a copout and trivializes the amount of time and energy that James and Stephen devoted to her. Besides, I get that 'choosing herself' is a viable option for a woman in modern society, but back then it was social and economic suicide. Anne's smart. She knows that she has to marry well to secure a good future for herself." Damon pauses. "She may not feel strongly about Stephen and she may not want people to label her a slut for taking up with James, but a woman in her position would never turn down an opportunity to be with either one of them."

I feel my face fall at his words. "If Anne ends up with either Whitmore, I'm worried that readers are going to focus on her choice instead of the brothers."

Damon's glance softens as he peruses my despondent expression. "Maybe I missed something," he says, opening the binder and flipping to the concluding pages. "I probably misinterpreted Anne's actions or something."

"No, I appreciate your honest reaction from before." I sigh, hugging my legs to my chest and resting my chin on my knees. "I was just so excited to have the working draft complete, you know? Now I feel like I have to rewrite those seventy-plus pages over Thanksgiving break to stay on my internal schedule."

"Hey, you still have that complete first draft." He offers me a small smile. "Give it to Ric or your other advisor and see what they think. They'll be able to give you a different take on the plot."

"Yeah, yeah," I huff, still disappointed. Being told that part of my first draft doesn't make sense is always deflating, especially when I spent a chunk of my weekend writing some of those scenes. "I know you're right, but that knowledge still stings."

Damon laughs. "I think this is the first time that a woman has voluntarily admitted that I'm right about anything!"

"Yeah, for some reason I can't picture Dr. Pierce saying those words to anyone but herself," I tease. Damon shakes his head.

"She's not exactly the…easiest…person to be around," he admits. I lean my head against my knees and look at him. The billion-dollar question stands on the tip of my tongue and itches to be spoken after months of wondering and waiting until the time is right.

"Damon?"

He's looking off to the side as if lost in thought. "Yeah?"

I take a deep breath and inwardly brace myself for his reaction. "Why are you dating Dr. Pierce?"

I panic when his eyes snap over to mine. "I'm sorry, I know that your relationship with Dr. Pierce is none of my business," I backpedal, feeling his stare chill me. "The two of you probably act a lot differently when you're together in private than you do when you're in public. It's just that…well, the few times I've been around you both, I get the impression that you want different things from your relationship. I don't think I've ever seen you in a good mood when you're around her."

Damon's intense expression drills into me, so I decide to wrap up my spiel and get the hell out of this uncomfortable office. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that even though I haven't dated anyone in over a year, I know that relationships aren't easy and that there's a lot more to them than meets the eye. Maybe these are the naïve thoughts of someone who's observed more couples than she's been a part of, but I think that the couples who last the longest do so because they trust their partners to take care of them and have their best interests at heart. Those people are part of a balanced team. It's _easy_ for those people to be themselves around their partners."

As soon as I stop talking, I wish I had a butter knife in my messenger bag so I could slice the silent tension in the air. I wait for Damon to say something, defend his relationship with Dr. Pierce, lash out and tell me that I don't have a clue what I'm talking about, but he simply sits hunched over on his couch with his face in his hands. I assume that the lines on his forehead mean that he's thinking about what I said, but he doesn't say anything to confirm or disprove my assumption.

I slip on my shoes and rise to my feet. "Well, I should get going," I stammer. I swipe the binder from Damon's lap and shove it into my bag. "Better get a jumpstart on these corrections, you know. You've given me a lot to think about."

Damon grunts an unintelligible response. He pulls his boots back onto his feet before standing and sitting on top of his desk. I can feel him watch me as I stuff my belongings into my bag. I slide my arms into my coat sleeves and sling my bag over my shoulder.

I walk to the door. "Since Thanksgiving's this Thursday, I guess I'll see you in a week. Got any big plans?"

Damon rolls his eyes. "Ric and I had the perfect plan to spend the day at a bar getting drunk off our asses, but then he spilled the beans to his new lady friend who promptly freaked out and then insisted that the four of us eat dinner at my place. An hour after that plan was made, Katherine informed me that she's spending Turkey Day in Bora Bora with her friend Pearl. Now I, lucky fellow that I am, get to spend my day playing third wheel in my own house. You?"

"That's horrible!" I exclaim. "And wait, Alaric's dating someone? Tell me everything!"

"Oh no, if you want to know anything about _Meredith_," he says, drawling the woman's name, "you can interrogate Ric yourself."

I pout at him but eventually relent. "I'm sticking around for Thanksgiving, too. Matt and I decided that we'd rather spend the money to fly home for Christmas, so we're cooking dinner for ourselves and Bonnie at the apartment."

Damon frowns. "What about your other friends?"

"Oh, Caroline and Tyler are spending the weekend at his Uncle Mason's beach house in Miami…those bastards," I laugh. "I'm really jealous that they get to leave Atlanta, even for a little bit."

"Yeah, I could go for a month-long vacation right now," Damon says. He goes quiet all of a sudden. I wait for him to say something; when he doesn't, I try to fill the silence.

"So…"

"You should come to my house for Thanksgiving."

My mouth falls to the floor at Damon's invitation. "What?"

"I mean, you as in you, Matt, and Bonnie all of you, not just you, though you're more than welcome to show up by yourself if your friends think it'd be weird to spend Turkey Day at your professor's house," he rambles, pacing in front of his desk. "But yeah, you guys should just come over to my place. I'm Italian, so you know there's going to be more than enough food to go around. And besides, you were just saying you wanted to learn more about Ric's latest squeeze, so this is a perfect chance for you to get to know her."

He stops walking and looks at me with pleading eyes. "You're not going to make me be the third wheel in my own home, are you? Because that would be horribly cruel of you, Elena Gilbert."

Damon's blue eyes are going to be the death of me. I pull my cell phone from my coat pocket. "I'll text Matt and Bonnie and see if they'd mind the change of scenery."

Damon beams. "Tell them that I have a fifty-inch television with kick-ass sound quality if that'll sweeten the deal."

"Bonnie'll be on board if she reads that," I say as I type the message. "She's a football nut. Consider yourself warned."

"Let's hope Ric's woman doesn't scare too easily."

"Fingers crossed, and message sent." I pocket my phone and button my coat. "I'll let you know Matt and Bonnie's verdicts as soon as they get back to me."

"Can't wait."

My phone chimes. I retrieve it from my pocket and read my new message. "Bonnie's in."

"That was fast." Damon frowns. "Any word from Matt?"

I shake my head. "I think he's going to be a tougher nut to crack. I think a small part of him was actually looking forward to cooking dinner tomorrow."

"And he doesn't trust me," Damon adds. I break our eye contact, knowing his words to be true.

"He'll come around."

"Maybe." Damon hesitates for a moment. "If he really wants to cook, my kitchen's big enough for the two of us to do our own thing and not bump into each other. We'll have enough leftovers to feed a third-world country, but that's okay. Thanksgiving leftovers are the best kind of leftovers."

I study Damon's face as he talks. I don't think I've ever seen his eyes as vibrant as they were when Bonnie and I said yes to his asking us to Thanksgiving dinner. The little I know about his childhood makes me wonder if he ever received any gestures of affection from his Dad or had any friends when growing up. It hits me how starved he must be for companionship, how desperately he must want it to reach out and try to spend time with us during Thanksgiving break.

It also hits me how badly I want to see him again this week.

"You can count the three of us in for Thanksgiving, Damon," I say, delighting in the way his eyes light at my words.

"What about Matt?"

I brush away his concern. "Don't worry about Matt, I know how to make him come around."

He grins at me and then, in a wholly unexpected gesture, pulls me into his arms for a huge hug. I instinctively wrap my arms around him, reveling in the way his warmth and spicy scent engulfs me as I lean into his hard body.

The hug ends as quickly as it begins. As Damon steps away from me, I see a flush of pink tinge his cheeks. "So, uh, you better get going to convince Matt," he says, running a hand through his hair as he looks at the carpet. Good God, the man is adorable.

I play along with his game. "I'll let you know as soon as I work my voodoo charm on him, okay?"

"And I'll text you my address on Wednesday."

"Sounds good." He opens his door for me and I step into the hallway. "I'll see you in a few days, Damon."

He smiles at me. "I'm looking forward to it, Elena." My tummy does flip-flops as I return his smile before walking down the hallway.

By the time Matt arrives at the apartment tonight after his shift at Donovan's, I've had plenty of time to formulate a plan of attack. "How was work?" I ask as he shuffles around the kitchen.

"Uneventful." He fills a glass with water and flops next to me on the futon. "I think a lot of people have already checked out for Thanksgiving break."

"Yeah, I'm so jealous of Caroline and Tyler's Miami vacation."

I decide to dive right into the main issue. "Did you get my text?" Matt raises an eyebrow at me. "About having Thanksgiving at Damon's place?"

Matt sighs. "I don't know, Lena. Why can't we just have Thanksgiving at our place with Bonnie like we planned?"

"We're all going to be stuck here for Thanksgiving, so we might as well spend the day together. Alaric's going to be there with his new girlfriend, so you'll have another guy to hang out with."

"Wait, Ric's dating someone?" Matt sets his glass on the coffee table. "Since when?"

"I don't know, I only found out about her today through Damon…and that's beside the point!" I exclaim, trying to get us back on subject. "The point is that there's no good reason for us to not spend the day at Damon's place."

Matt scrutinizes me from his spot on the futon. "This is really important to you, isn't it?" I nod. He frowns. "Why?"

"Because Damon was so excited at the possibility of having us over for Thanksgiving and I don't want to let him down. He needs to be around good people like us, Matty. Dr. Pierce is ditching him to spend the holiday with her best friend in Bora Bora. He's really alone, and no one should be alone for the holidays."

"We should have kept that abandoned kitten you found last year. Maybe you wouldn't be so eager to take in your stray professor," Matt sighs, looking at the ceiling. He glances back to me. "What did Bonnie say?"

I try to keep my expression neutral, but I'm grinning ear to ear on the inside. I know I've got Matt convinced. "She's in."

"Let me guess, Mr. Fancy-Pants Professor has a big screen TV for football games."

"Yep."

"Do I have to eat whatever he makes or can I bring some of our Thanksgiving favorites?"

"Damon said that his kitchen is big enough for both of you to cook and not bump into each other."

Matt exhales and slumps back into the futon. I watch his forehead crinkle as he mulls over the idea in his head. After several minutes, he turns to me and shrugs.

"Fine, let's spend Thanksgiving with your professors."

"Yes!" I throw my arms around Matt's neck and squeeze. "Thank you, Matty. I promise it's going to be a great day."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, trying to shove me off him. "Salvatore better have a kickass kitchen."

"It'll be the kitchen of your dreams, _Donovan_," I tease, laughing as Matt tries to stand up with my arms still linked around his neck. He shuffles the both of us down the hallway and into my bedroom, flipping me on my bed before leaving to his room. I giggle just a bit longer before snatching my phone off my nightstand to text Damon the good news.

Three days later, I sit squished between Matt and Bonnie in his pickup truck as we navigate our way to Damon's house. Premade pies – chocolate bourbon pecan and sweet potato – sit in my lap, and a bagful of groceries rests between Bonnie's feet.

"Okay, Damon said to follow Abernathy Road all the way to the house," I say, reading the text Damon sent me last night. Matt nods and turns onto the road. As we drive down the asphalt street, the houses grow sparser and give way to more trees. The sunset-colored leaves on the oaks and maples make the woods feel vibrant. I'm feeling anxious at the prospect of setting foot in Damon's house, but prefacing that moment with such a serene drive definitely takes the edge off my unease.

Matt releases a low whistle as the house comes in sight. "Wow."

I'd echo his statement, but I'm rendered speechless by the freaking _mansion_ in front of me right now. Beautiful wrought-iron windows and doors lay dotted amongst brick walls. Exposed wooden beams and triangular cutouts make the house look like a cross between something you'd see in Tudor England and a gingerbread house from a Grimm Brother's fairy tale. Ivy-wrapped trees stand tall on the grass island that rests in the middle of the circular driveway.

Without a doubt, Damon's home is one of the most beautiful places that I've ever seen in my life.

"Jesus, Gilbert," Bonnie says as we hop out of the truck. "What the hell are they paying professors these days? Forget everything I ever said about you not making a dime if you ever become a professor; I'm calling permanent dibs on a bedroom in your lookalike palace!"

"Elena's living in a boarding house?" Damon's voice sounds from the side walkway. As he walks towards us in a light blue Oxford shirt and pleated black pants that make me wonder if it's legal to look that amazing, I will myself not to drool. He stops next to me and greets us with a smile. "Glad you guys could make it. Did you have trouble finding the place?"

"You should have just told us to look for the fucking mansion, Teach!" Bonnie exclaims, letting Damon take her bag of groceries. "You could host some serious ragers here."

"I'll consider it," Damon chuckles, taking the pies from my hands and winking at me before turning to Matt. "I was just about to put the turkey in, but I've never actually cooked a turkey before and I'm pretty sure I've messed everything up. Can you help?"

"Uh…yeah, sure, let's take a look at it," Matt stammers, shooting me a skeptical look before following Damon into the side entrance. Bonnie and I loiter behind so we can look at the outside of the boarding house.

"This place is just fucking ridiculous," Bonnie says. She cranes her neck and looks up at the brick lattice work. When she faces me, she has a mischievous glint in her eyes. "And don't think I didn't see the way you were looking at Teach earlier. When he first came out, I thought I'd have to stick a bucket under your mouth to collect all the drool."

"Shut up!" I hiss, feeling my cheeks flame with embarrassment. "It's not like that between me and Damon."

Bonnie sniggers. "Sure, and I play the Peruvian flutes."

"Now _there_'s an image."

"Butt. Naked."

"Now there's an _image_!" Bonnie laughs as she links our arms together. We continue to giggle as we stroll into the boarding house. It's time to start Thanksgiving day with Damon.

* * *

><p><strong>You readers continue to blow me away with the support you show this story. Thanks a billion for reading this story and leaving me reviews or PMs for me to enjoy. Also, apparently a bunch of you pimp this story out to the Tumblr masses! I don't have a Tumblr account, so you can only imagine how giddy I was to hear that BIYE has taken on a life of its own. (Quick shout-out to <strong>_**powerlesbian **_**and her**** Stephen Colbert "GIVE IT TO ME" GIF about this fic. I howled with laughter for days.)**

**Thanks to everyone who's volunteered to assist me with the Capstone Project I'm completing next semester on fanfiction – what it is, why people read/write it, etc. I'm still looking for volunteers to answer a questionnaire about your fanfiction experiences. If you're interested, please PM me with your email address (the **_**email at domain dot com**_** format gets past the FF website filters) so I can email you the questionnaire in January. If you're on the fence and want more information, I'm more than happy to elaborate about my project!**

**Hope everyone who celebrates the holidays at this time is having a wonderful break so far!**


	38. Chapter 38

The inside of Damon's house is more grandiose than its outside. Oil paintings of generations of Salvatores adorn the dark walls. Matching oak furniture with jewel-toned cushions lies artfully arranged around a crackling fireplace. Oriental rugs cover polished hardwood floors. Antique knick knacks cover wooden end tables and sit atop old bookshelves.

I see Damon poke his head around the corner of what I assume is his kitchen. He walks over to Bonnie and I. "Stuffy, isn't it?"

I spin around to let my eyes feast on the spectacle of this room. "I love it."

"You do?" His voice raises at the end of his question, almost as if he's in shock that my response is so positive.

"There's so much to see in here," I marvel, walking over to a portrait of a solemn Basilio T. Salvatore on the closest wall. "It's perfect for people who live and breathe history. I could stay here for days and never get bored."

"I can give you a tour if you'd like."

"Really?"

He extends his arm to me. "You joining us, Bennett?"

She shakes her head. "I'm more of an explore-on-my-own kind of girl."

"In that case, don't get stuck in the dungeon downstairs. It was built to hide escaped slaves, so if you scream, no one's going to hear you."

"You have a _dungeon_?" I search his expression for some sign that he's joking. He grins at me.

"Stick with me and you'll find out." As he leads me upstairs, my head reels from the knowledge that Damon's house has an actual dungeon in it.

As we walk down the hallway, the eyes of dozens of painted Salvatores stare at us. "So, is there a portrait of you on these walls?" I ask as we pass a prim-mouthed Francesca Salvatore. Damon rolls his eyes.

"Try two," he grumbles, stopping me in front of a portrait of a sullen-faced boy wearing a pastel suit. "Exhibit A: me at seven."

I scrutinize the portrait and see his familiar blue eyes staring at me. "Oh my gosh!" I exclaim, stepping close to the painting. "You're so little! You were so cute as a kid!"

"Just as a kid?" he pouts. I playfully glare at him before turning my attention back to his portrait.

"Were you trying to look miserable? You look like someone just told you that you couldn't eat dessert for the rest of your life."

"Hey, I'd like to see your seven-year-old self sit inside for hours each day during the summertime. Let's see how cheerful _you_ look," he retorts, grabbing my hand and gently tugging me away from the painting. "I went through a pirate phase that summer, and every day I'd pretend to sail the high seas on the creek out back. Why would I want to sit for a stupid portrait when I was in the middle of a smuggling expedition to South America?"

I smile at the thought of a young Damon pretending to be the captain of a pirate ship. I'm so caught up in the image that I barely register what he's saying to me in the present.

"…boring spare bedroom here, boring spare bedroom there, Stefan's room, bathroom…"

I stop us in front of Stefan's bedroom doorway. "This is your brother's room?"

"Yep."

"Can I see it?"

Damon's face hardens. "If you must." I'm hurt by the sudden sharpness in his voice, but I'm so curious to see Stefan's room. Damon never talks about his brother. The only things I know about him are that he's a musical prodigy who's played in concert halls all over the world, that Mrs. Salvatore died while giving birth to him, and that the mere mention of him makes Damon feel inadequate. Maybe if I see Stefan's room and learn more about him, I can find a better way to help Damon work through some of the tougher things he endured when he was younger.

The door to Stefan's room creaks as I push it open. I poke my head inside. Filled bookshelves line the walls. When I step closer, I see that they hold tons of sheet music and leather-bound journals. I pick the top piece of music off the pile and see that it's Maurice Ravel's _Gaspard de la nuit_. February 13, 1993 is written in careful handwriting on the front page's upper right-hand corner.

"He always writes the first date that he played the composition correctly on all of his sheet music," Damon explains. I whirl around and see him leaning against Stefan's doorframe. I look back down at the Ravel music.

"How old was he in 1993?"

"Five."

"Holy shit," I gasp, setting the sheet music back on the stack. "You realize that's one of the most difficult pieces of piano music ever written?"

"So I was told."

I wince at the flash of pain that passes across his face and decide right then that I don't have to see any more of Stefan's room. I've learned enough for the moment. I walk out of the bedroom and turn down the hallway, eager to continue Damon's tour. When I find myself walking alone, however, I turn back towards Stefan's bedroom.

"Damon?"

He steps out of his brother's room and walks towards me with a piece of paper in his hand. He hands it to me. I see that it's the Ravel piece.

When I look up at him, he shrugs. "Keep it until you learn it. Stefan won't mind."

"Are you sure your brother won't mind you giving away his stuff to a complete stranger?"

A small smile cracks his lips as I accept the music. "Better a piece of old sheet music than his diaries."

"Diaries?"

"Sorry, _journals_," he corrects, making quotation marks with his fingers. "I read them once or twice. Fascinating stuff, Stefan's musings on how Suave styling gel gave his hair more lift than American Crew styling gel."

"Maybe he's hoping that someone will discover them and turn them into a TV show," I suggest. Damon wrinkles his nose.

"Worst show in the world."

Damon leads me back down the hallway, but I realize that he didn't show me its final room. "Wait a minute, mister. Where's your bedroom?"

He stops in his tracks. "You want to see my bedroom?"

"The tour wouldn't be complete without it."

He sighs. "It's not as interesting as Stefan's," he says, doing an about-face in the middle of the hallway. I roll my eyes at him.

"I don't believe that for one second." We stop at a doorway at the end of the hallway. I look at Damon for permission to enter. He nods. I turn the doorknob.

I'm overwhelmed by shades of brown. Chocolate hardwood floors. Ten-foot walls of chestnut wood. Equally tall curtains of mixed shades of copper and fawn that cover large windows. Most notably, a king-size bed with a russet headboard on top of another Oriental rug. The room is sleek. Masculine. It smells of Damon's spice.

"I told you it's not that interesting," Damon says. I hear an understated hope for approval in his voice. I see a stack of books at the corner of his bed and walk towards it.

"I like it more than your brother's room," I admit, crouching down to the books so I can read their titles. Bell Irvin Wiley's _The Life of Johnny Reb _and _The Life of Billy Yank_ sit under Reid Mitchell's _The Vacant Chair: The Northern Solider Leaves Home_ and J. Tracy Power's _Lee's Miserables: Life in the Army of Northern Virginia, from the Wilderness to the Appomattox_. On top of those sits _Music of the Civil War Era_ by Steven Cornelius and Christian McWhirter's _Battle Hymns: The Power and Popularity of Music in the Civil War_. Irwin Silber's _Songs of the Civil War_ rests at the top of the stack.

I look up at Damon, who's moved to sit on the edge of his bed. "Since when do you study music's impact on history?"

He hesitates. "Since an insightful person told me that the relationship between the two was important."

I try to contain my excitement at Damon's subtle compliment. "Are you planning to do anything with the information in those books?"

For some reason, Damon's body language becomes tenser. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that…"

He cuts himself off when we hear Matt and Bonnie greet Alaric and his new girlfriend. He stands up and paces to his bedroom door. "Take your time up here; I'm going to say hi to Ric and Meredith," he says, watching me with an undistinguishable expression for a moment before disappearing. I slowly stand to my feet as I hear his footsteps travel downstairs. I want to know what he was going to say before Alaric arrived. What did he need to ask me about Civil War music? My fingers trail across the top of the stack of books before I roll the Ravel sheet music in my hand and follow him down to the living room.

The woman standing next to Alaric – Meredith, I presume – is a slip of a person. The top of her head barely reaches Alaric's shoulders. As I step closer, I see that her face has feline features that belong on someone from the 1920s. She'd make an adorable flapper for Halloween.

Alaric makes space for me in the small circle of people that's formed in Damon's living room. "Good to see you again, Elena. Happy Thanksgiving."

"You too, Alaric." I turn to face presumably-Meredith and extend my hand to her. "Hi, I'm Elena."

"Meredith." She gives my hand a firm shake. As she withdraws her hand from mine, her brown eyes dart between the people in our group. "Okay, Ric explained how everyone knows each other on the ride over here, but can someone give me a quick reminder?"

"Elena's one of my graduate students at the university," Alaric explains, "and Matt and Bonnie are her friends."

"And the three of you are in a band together?" Meredith asks, eyeing each of us in turn. Matt nods.

"There are two others in the band, but they're spending the holiday in Miami."

"Got it." Meredith's studious gaze turns to Damon and I. "And the two of you?"

Damon and I both open our mouths to answer at the same time, then close our mouths at the same time to let the other person answer, then reopen our mouths once more. We laugh at each other. A quick glance around the circle reveals that we're the only ones laughing, so I nod at Damon to let him speak.

"I'm Elena's advisor for her MFA thesis project."

"He stole her from me," Alaric adds, winking at me. "Told me I'd be doing her a disservice if I continued to advise her instead of letting him take over."

I whirl to face Damon. "Damon Salvatore, you did not!"

His eyes twinkle, though the rest of his expression is unapologetic. "Come on, we both know that Ric couldn't advise his way out of a paper bag. I saved your novel!"

"Whoa, trying to impress a lady here," Alaric interrupts, cupping his hands over Meredith's ears. "Let's save the talk about my incompetency for after dinner when we're all too drunk to remember it, okay?" Meredith giggles, and as I watch them share a meaningful look, my heart twinges with jealousy. I resist the urge to glance at Damon. Those looks of adoration are never going to pass between us.

"What can we do to help?" Meredith asks, shrugging off her peacoat. Damon takes it from her and hangs it next to my jacket on the hooks by the entry door.

"You should ask Matt. At the moment, he's in charge of the kitchen."

Meredith turns her megawatt smile to Matt. "If you need anything chopped, I'm pretty good at that. It kind of comes with the territory of being a surgeon."

"Yeah, uh, I guess it does." Bonnie and I eye each other at the sound of Matt's nervous laughter. He catches our not-so-secret glance and glares at us. "I could use your help cutting the celery and onions for the stuffing."

"I bet you could," Bonnie mutters, winking at Matt when the intensity of his glare increases. Damon snorts, and I see him shake with silent laughter out of the corner of my eye. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Poor Alaric, bless his heart, just looks confused.

"So, _Meredith_," Matt says loudly, shooting Bonnie and I one last glare before leading Meredith into the kitchen. "You're a surgeon, huh? I bet you know all sorts of fun ways to kill people and hide the evidence…"

When the two of them are out of earshot, Bonnie, Damon, and I quietly snigger. Alaric just shakes his head at us. The four of us settle into the furniture next to Damon's fireplace.

"I hear congratulations are in order, Elena," Alaric says, adjusting his body position in the armchair across from me. "Damon told me that you finished your novel."

"The first draft of my novel," I correct as Bonnie rests her legs in my lap. "Only a billion more drafts to go."

"Hey, none of that talk here," Damon says, wagging his finger at me from the armchair next to Alaric's. "Be proud of what you've done."

"Fucking right, Gilbert," Bonnie adds. "I can't even read a three-hundred-page book, let alone write one. Listen to Teach and brag a little."

"It does feel nice to have a complete first draft, but I want to get other opinions on it before I decide what I need to change." I look at Alaric. "I'd love to get your opinion on the current draft if you have some time."

"Yeah, I'd be happy to read what you've got."

"Great!" I stand up and walk over to the door. "I'm going to run out to Matt's car and get your copy so it's not forgotten."

"A bit presumptuous of you, eh?" Alaric teases. I give him a sheepish grin as I slip my arms into my jacket. I hear the movement of leather to my right. When I look over, Damon's wearing his jacket.

"I'll walk out with you."

I feel my cheeks flush at the thought of being alone with him once more. "It'll only take a minute, Damon."

"Maybe, but the tour's not over." The corners of his mouth curve upwards.

I'm suddenly _very_ eager to be alone with Damon outside.

As Damon opens the door for me, I look back and make brief eye contact with Bonnie. She makes a lewd gesture at me with her tongue. I wrinkle my nose at her before continuing outside.

I start to walk towards Matt's truck, but I feel Damon's fingers curl around my wrist. "I want to show you something."

"What about Alaric's copy?"

"We'll grab it when we return. Here, come with me." He releases my wrist, but we walk alongside each other to his backyard. I release a breath I didn't know I held when it comes into view. It's an unadorned field approximately the size of a football stadium, but it's so green and lush that it's just as impressive as the rest of the boarding house. Autumn-kissed woods surround the backyard and create a natural fence that just begs people to explore past its borders.

"It must have been amazing to grow up here," I breathe, taking in the sheer vastness of this yard. "This place is perfect for snowball fights in the winter and catching fireflies in the summer. Oh, and fall football games!"

Damon's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Maybe, if I had other people to play with."

I frown. "What about Stefan, or your friends from school."

"Father yelled at me if I roughhoused with Stefan. And after Mom died, Father shipped me to boarding school in upstate New York. When I returned to Atlanta for the holidays or summer, the few friends I had returned to their homes in California, Michigan, or London."

"Few friends?"

He sighs and looks around the yard. "I know this may shock you because I'm _so_ amazing now, but I wasn't exactly popular when I was in school. I was picked on because I liked History so much. The fact that I earned my Ph.D. in the subject that caused me so much misery as a kid is a testament to how much I like it."

Damon's expression grows distant, and I assume that he's remembering his less pleasant memories of boarding school. I hate that he looks so sad. I reach over and touch his arm to snap him out of his reverie.

"Forget about those jackwads who picked on you," I offer. "I'm sure they all live shitty lives anyway. You definitely came out on top."

His mouth quirks up, as if he's attempting to smile. "You think?"

I gesture to the boarding house with one arm and the backyard with the other. "You're living in an amazing house, you've got your dream job, and you're spending Thanksgiving with some kickass people. Your life looks pretty good from where I'm standing."

He smirks. "Well, you _are_ standing in the best spot in the backyard."

"Oh really?"

"Only the best for you, Elena."

I blush at his words. If Damon says anything about it, I'm going to blame my redness on the brisk air. Before I can think of a snappy comeback, Damon takes my hand and tugs me towards the woods.

"Come see the creek."

He helps me over fallen trees and leads me around shrubbery until we're standing on the bank of a small creek. The woods are quiet except for the occasional chirps of idle birds and the constant sound of lapping water. A felled trunk creates a narrow bridge from one side of the creek to the other.

I eye the trunk-bridge. "Can you walk across that?"

"What, that tree?" Damon walks over to the trunk and places one of his feet on it. "Maybe when I was seven…"

"And now?"

He smirks at me. "Is that a challenge?"

I smirk back at him. "Is it?"

"Feisty. I like it." He takes off his leather jacket and hands it to me. I hug it to my chest and watch as he steps onto the log. He stays still for several seconds before he extends his arms and starts to walk across the tree trunk. I should probably be impressed with his balance. Truthfully, I'm more focused on how much I want to squeeze his ass in those black dress pants.

When Damon's halfway across the trunk, I call out to him. "How deep is the water?"

He snorts. "A foot, maybe a foot and a half. Why, are you worried I'm going to drown?"

"Just checking." I lay his jacket down on a tree stump and sneak over to the base of the log. After I look and make sure that he's not paying attention to me, I place my foot on the trunk and kick it.

The slight movement makes Damon hesitate. I snicker under my breath as I move the trunk again. He yelps. As he cranes his neck back at me, I nudge the trunk again.

"Oh, _now_ I see why you asked about the water."

I giggle as he wobbles on the trunk. "I thought you could use the extra challenge," I tease. "You're not eight anymore. You should be held to higher standards."

"You're a brat, Elena Gilbert." He laughs as he says it. "I'd like to see you do better!"

I wrestle off my jacket and lay it next to his before I walk up to the base of the log. "You better move, Salvatore. I'm coming after you."

He scoffs. "I'm not worri—oh, shit!" he mutters, noticing that I'm already a quarter of the way across the trunk. I laugh as he struggles to turn around on the log, and I take advantage of his shaky balance to close the gap between us. When we're three quarters of the way across the log, I reach out and tap him on the shoulder.

"Can you move faster, please?" I say as sweetly as possible. "I'm trying to prove a point to someone."

"Were you a tightrope walker in a former life?" he demands. His arms make windmill motions in what I assume is his attempt to stay balanced on the wood. His abrupt actions make me wobble for a second, and I stick out my arms to right myself.

"Don't know, but I'm making a great case for that possibility right now, don't you think?" As Damon takes one step, I move with him, and both of us eventually stand on the other side of the creek bank.

Damon collapses onto the carpet of leaves. "That was terrifying," he gasps. His chest heaves up and down. "You're going first on the way back. We'll see how well you do when the log happens to…shake…a bit."

"Probably just as well as I did on my way over here," I tease. Damon barks out a laugh and rolls over to his side. He props his head up with his arm and looks at me.

"I'm liking this snark, Elena. It suits you."

"Snark? Me? I don't know what you're talking about."

He laughs again. "Are you this much of a brat to everyone else, or did I win an unspecified lottery?"

"If by a "brat" you mean at ease, then no, I'm only a brat around the people I feel comfortable around. It's a limited group. You should feel privileged to be a part of it." I hug my legs close to my chest, starting to feel the air's chill once again.

"_So_ privileged," Damon echoes. He sits up and faces me. "I'd never have guessed that you don't feel comfortable around others. You hide it really well."

"Thanks. I've had years of practice." I sigh and look at the creek. "Don't get me wrong, I like being around people, but it takes a while for me to warm up to them. I'm crazy-jealous of Matt for being able to have a conversation with someone he's just met. I _suck_ at making small talk. If I don't have anything important to say, I'd rather stay quiet and let others do the talking while I get to know that person through observation."

"Creepy."

I shrug. "Maybe, but I'd rather be creepy than insincere."

"Believe me, Elena, you are _anything_ but insincere." When I look over at Damon, his eyes lock with mine. The shiver that courses through me has nothing to do with the cold.

"Shit, you're cold." He jumps to his feet and pulls me to mine. "We should head inside before we turn into popsicles." As he gestures for me to lead our tree trunk bridge crossing, I mentally curse my involuntary shiver for ending this moment with Damon.

I hop off the log and grab my and Damon's jacket from the nearby tree trunk. As we slip into them, I realize that this is the second interrupted conversation we've had today, the first one occurring in his bedroom. "Hey Damon, what were you going to ask me about earlier?" I elaborate when his forehead wrinkles. "We were talking about the Civil War music books you had in your bedroom."

"Oh, that." His expression grows uneasy as we navigate our way back to the boarding house. "It's nothing."

"You're nervous, so it's probably something…"

Damon sighs. "I have to teach a graduate course next semester, and the department chair wants it to be a new offering."

"Wow, you really have the opportunity to teach about anything you want." We've made it to Matt's truck, so I open the door and grab the bound copy of my draft off the floor. "What did you have in mind?"

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "AclassonHistoryandMusicwitha focusontheCivilWar?"

"Sorry, what was that?"

I see Damon clear his throat. "A class on History and Music with a focus on the Civil War?"

The binder in my hand crashes to the ground. So does my lower jaw. "You're going to teach a class about music?"

"It's a dumb idea," he snaps, storming away from Matt's truck. I crouch to pick up the binder and race after him.

"It's not, Damon. It's not a dumb idea at all." When I grab his arm, he stops walking, but his body continues to heave with angered exhalations. I instinctively throw my arms around his waist and hold him until he calms down.

"I'm an idiot," he mutters. I feel him shake his head. "I don't know what I was thinking. I'm the least qualified person to teach anything about music."

"But you're more than qualified to teach the historical aspect of the class," I counter, taking a small step away from him so I can look him in the eyes. "And yes, you're new to music, but the fact that you have those books in your room shows that you're willing to put in the effort to round out your knowledge."

"I don't know if four-and-a-half months of gradual music immersion will be enough to teach an entire class about it."

As much as I want to boost Damon's confidence and tell him that his music knowledge will be more than adequate, I know in my heart that he's not the right person to teach the music portion of this class. "Could you co-teach the class with someone who knows a lot about music to compensate for your lack of knowledge?"

He levels me with a meaningful stare. "You."

"What? No, I was thinking more along the lines of a professor from the Music department."

Light fills his eyes. "Elena, it has to be you. You're perfect."

_You're perfect. It has to be you_.

Damn it all to hell if I don't remember those seven words the next time I touch myself.

"…we'll balance each other out because you know as much about music history as I know about regular history. It'll be a cinch to design the class because we already know that we work well together. Oh, and you'll get paid to spend time with me!" He levels me with a puppy-dog stare that makes my ovaries clench. "I can't teach this class without you, Elena. You know I'm no good without you."

_I'm no good without you_.

That clanking noise? Yeah, it's the sound of five more words adding themselves to my spank bank.

My head reels from a combination of trying to process Damon's unexpected request and trying to prevent my brain from converting his words into fodder for the Naughty Things playlist. I need time away from him to think about this proposition. "When do I need to make a decision?"

"December 1st."

"Can I think about it until the 30th?"

He frowns, but he eventually nods. "Sure. I'll just think of something else in case you say no." His voice is curt. It's as if he already expects me to turn him down. Don't get me wrong, I'm _thrilled_ at the prospect of being Damon's Teaching Assistant. Professionally speaking, it's an amazing opportunity to gain some classroom experience teaching the subjects I love. On a personal level, I'm giddy just thinking about all the time I'll get to spend with Damon both in and out of the classroom to plan and execute this course.

On the flip side, even in the off-chance that Damon's no longer dating Dr. Pierce, he'll still be my professor and I'll still be his student, so yeah, having all of my teeth pulled might feel more comfortable than continuing to spend time with him in such close proximity.

We walk back to the boarding house in silence, but just before we go inside, I touch his arm. "I want to do it," I insist, searching his eyes for some sign that he believes me. "I just need to make sure that I can give you the commitment that you deserve."

He looks at me for several seconds before shaking his head. "Sometimes I wish…" he murmurs, but he doesn't finish his thought as he opens the door and follows me inside.

Four heads swivel to face us as we walk into the living room. "Did you get lost on the way to Matt's truck?" Bonnie teases. Alaric and Meredith chuckle at her words, but Matt's face remains impartial.

"We were continuing the tour," Damon says, shrugging out of his jacket. I hand him mine, and he goes to hang them up before returning to the room. "What's the status on food?"

"Matt and I wrestled the turkey into the oven, and the stuffing's prepped," Meredith says. "According to him, the only things left to cook are the mashed potatoes, sausage-stuffed mushrooms, and whatever you're making."

"In that case, I should probably get started on my Italian stuff if we want to eat around six. When does football start?"

"In three minutes, fucker," Bonnie says, glancing up from her grommet watch. "I was beginning to think that this whole 'kickass television' thing was a ploy."

"Please, Bennett, I'd never lie to you. I don't want to get my ass kicked," Damon laughs, motioning for all of us to follow him. He leads us down a winding staircase into a dark hallway of weathered bricks. As we walk through it, I look around for an old lock or secret passageway that could lead to this supposed dungeon. I'm still not convinced that it exists. Seriously, who lives in a house with a _dungeon_?

I'm about to demand that Damon show me the alleged dungeon when we enter what can only be described as his man-cave. Framed Civil War memorabilia and travel posters to Civil War sites dot the room's brick walls. Sleek lamps hang from the exposed wooden ceiling beams. Four high-backed bar stools sit around a mahogany bar; matching cabinets stocked with expensive-looking liquor bottles and a variety of glasses rest behind it. An elegant billiards table stands at one end of the room; at the other, a three-piece sectional leather sofa faces the advertised fifty-inch flat screen, electronic equipment, and another gas fireplace.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Bonnie whoops, strutting over to the sofa and flopping down on it. She snatches the remote control from the cushion besides her and turns on the television, flipping the channel to watch the Texans take on the Lions. "Come get me when the food's ready!"

Damon chuckles as he faces the remaining four of us. "I'm going to head back upstairs to start my half of the cooking. Help yourselves to anything in the cabinets and mini-fridge except for the bourbon. Matt, do I need to keep an eye on any of your stuff?"

He looks down at his sports watch. "Turkey's due out around five, but everything else is set on my end."

"Do you need any help?" Meredith offers. Damon shakes his head.

"Nah, I've got everything under control. If the game gets boring, you can stop by and chop some more veggies."

While Alaric gets Bonnie and Meredith drinks from the bar, I stop Damon before he heads upstairs. "I'm beginning to think this whole dungeon thing was a ploy," I tease, crossing my arms as I narrow my eyes and try to look annoyed. Damon smirks at me.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Elena."

"Then where is it?"

"I'm not just going to tell you where the dungeon is, Elena. Where's the fun in that?" He winks at me and starts to head back to the kitchen. "Why don't you explore the boarding house and see if you can find it yourself?"

"Your house is huge. What if I get lost and can't find my way back?"

The smirk on his face grows wider. "I think there's some leftover bread cubes from Matt's stuffing. Leave a trail of those."

"Oh!" I gasp, lightly smacking his arm with my fingers. "You are an _awful_ person, Damon Salvatore!" He laughs at me as he removes my hand from his arm, squeezing it once before heading back down the hallway and up the stairs.

For the next four hours, the six of us alternate between lounging in front of the fireplace and watching football and preparing some part of the Thanksgiving meal. I wander around the boarding house in search of the dungeon. I don't find it, but I do find Damon's second portrait in the house's abandoned scullery. I blow the dust off the frame and eye Damon in his high school graduation cap and gown. His hand rests against his chest and curls around a rolled diploma. His face at eighteen no longer carries the baby fat he had when he was seven, but those icy eyes and raven hair of his are just as beguiling as ever. I imagine he was quite the heartbreaker in high school, though whether or not he was aware of it is the real question to be asked.

At 5:30, Bonnie, Alaric, Matt, and I make our way upstairs to help Damon and Meredith set the table. The entire boarding house smells of our pending Thanksgiving feast, and my mouth waters at the aromas of turkey, garlic, melted cheese, and nutmeg that fill the air.

Damon lowers a stack of china plates into my waiting hands. "Be careful with these," he warns. "They were my great-grandmother's. I don't think they've been used in fifty years."

My thumbs trace over the smooth china. "And you're trusting me with them?"

"Better you than Bonnie. She'd likely drop them on purpose for some drum rhythm inspiration." He looks over at Bonnie as he says this. She continues her conversation with Alaric and Meredith, but as her hand raises to seemingly scratch her hair, her middle finger extends towards Damon. We chuckle, and I scamper off to set the table. Bonnie and Meredith eventually join me and help me place silverware, cloth napkins, and refilled drink glasses at our designated spots. I note with pleasure that I'm seated between Damon, at one head of the table, and Matt. Bonnie's at the other table end, with Alaric seated to her immediate right and Meredith next to him.

When we finish setting the table, the men bring in the food. My eyes bulge at how quickly the table disappears, and when we all sit down to eat, I brace myself to consume everything in front of me.

As Alaric goes to heap some of the garlic mashed potatoes onto his plate, Bonnie smacks his hand away from the spoon. "Back the fuck off, Teach. We haven't said grace or gone around the table and said what we're thankful for!"

Damon's eyebrow raises. "_You_ say grace?"

"Screw you, Other Teach. My Grams raised me right."

"_Screw_ you, my _Grams_ raised me right," Matt repeats. "Nice, Bonnie."

"Fuck off, Donovan. Now everyone hold hands." I pinch my lips together to keep from laughing at Meredith's baffled expression as Bonnie leads us in a short prayer. Sure, Bonnie's a metalhead badass, but every now and then I catch glimpses of the woman who attended church with her Grams every Sunday and values togetherness more than anything. She doesn't show us this part of her very often, but her communal side is just as much a part of her as her penchant for pounding a fast rhythm on her drum set.

"Amen."

My left side feels warmer than my right. I look over and see Damon look down at our joined hands, then up at me. His thumb rubs the skin on the top of my hand as he glances back to Bonnie. "What are you thankful for, Bennett?"

"Napalm Death's new album and warm socks."

I stare at Bonnie, expecting her to say more, but when she slumps back in her seat I elbow Matt to speak next. "Uh…I guess I'm thankful that the bar's doing so well and that I get to play music with my best friends every weekend."

I'm up. "I'm thankful that all of my family and friends are happy and healthy, that I'm making progress with my novel, and I'm especially thankful to Damon for inviting us here today."

A small flush colors Damon's cheeks. He clears his throat. "I'm thankful for my job, and I'm thankful for everyone here." He looks at me when he says this, and now it's _my_ turn to blush. We continue around the table – Meredith's thankful that a little girl she operated on gets to spend today at home with her family, and Alaric is thankful that his article on weaponry used in the War of 1812 was accepted for publication in a prestigious periodical. We clink our glasses together, cheers to the day, and dig into the feast before us.

Two hours later, the six of us slump in our dining room chairs, our stomachs slightly more bloated than they were when we started the meal. "I don't think I can eat another bite," Meredith groans, resting her head on Alaric's shoulder. "So…much…food."

"Hey Damon, do you think we could get away with wearing sweatpants to teach on Monday?" Alaric asks, his words slurred from the seven beers he drank today. Damon's head lulls to his chest as his eyes flutter shut.

"Maybe if we pair them with a nice shirt."

"God damn," Bonnie mutters, slowly standing to her feet. "That mac and cheese you made was fucking amazing, Teach. I call dibs on those leftovers. And on Matt's sausage-stuffed mushrooms. And on whatever's left of the chocolate bourbon pecan pie."

"No way," I chime in, clutching my hand to my stomach. "I'll fight you for that. And so will Matt."

He chokes out a laugh. "Only if the fight happens next week. I'm not doing anything before then."

"Seconded."

"I third."

We sit in stuffed silence for five more minutes before we summon the energy to clean up. Everyone clears the table, and Damon and I wash and dry the dishes while everyone else spoons the leftover food into Tupperware containers. Sometimes he and I brush against each other when he hands me something to dry, and the resulting flutters in my stomach have nothing to do with the ton of food floating in it.

When everything's in the dishwasher or refrigerator, the six of us stagger back downstairs and sink into the sofa.

"Is there another game on?" Bonnie murmurs with half-open eyes. She grabs a pillow from the floor, rests it on Matt's lap, and lays down on him. He stretches his hand out and feels around for the remote. Two minutes of maneuvering later, the television turns on to the Patriots versus Jets game.

"Damon, is it okay if we crash here for the night?" Alaric asks, holding a sleeping Meredith in his arms. "I think I've had one too many to drive her home."

"Actually, everyone should just crash here tonight. It's not like I don't have the space, and we've all had one too many for the road."

My heart speeds at the realization that I'm spending the night in Damon's house. Memories of the night we accidentally slept together in his office surface. I quickly tell myself that tonight won't be like that. There are seven bedrooms in this house – no way is there a need for us to share. I feel a severe glance from my right, and I turn to see Matt spear me with a meaningful look. I can tell that he's not happy about staying here longer than necessary. When he eventually shrugs and falls back into the sofa, I know he's realized that there's no way he, Bonnie, or I can drive us back to our apartment after all of the beer and whiskey that's in our systems. I'm booze-warm and happy, and I'm sure having Damon seated next to me is only exacerbating those feelings.

As the football game drones on and the Patriots clobber the Jets, my eyelids grow heavy from food, booze, and sheer exhaustion. It's been a long day, but the day has been so good. I love Damon's house. Hopefully I'll set foot in it again. As I slip out of consciousness, I wonder if he'd host Caroline and my's joint graduation party here in May.

The next thing I know, I'm being cradled by a pair of strong arms as I'm carried up the steps. I instinctively throw my arms around my carrier's neck and nestle into his or her chest. When I inhale, I'm surrounded by Damon's spicy scent.

"Where are you taking me?" I mumble, slowly opening my eyes and blinking up at him. His grip on me tightens as he stares at me with a tender expression.

"You fell asleep downstairs, pretty girl." We walk through his living room and start up the second flight of stairs to the floor with the bedrooms. "Hush now. I'll take care of you."

"That's nice." I close my eyes and curl back into him, feeling his chest move in and out against my body. I hear the creak of an opening door. Shortly after, my body's laid on a plush surface. When Damon pulls away, I yearn for his warmth to return.

"There's a t-shirt and a pair of my old sweatpants at the foot of your bed if you want to change into them," he murmurs. The bed sags with his weight as he sits down. I groan into she soft comforter.

"I know I should change but I'm so comfortable right now." I stretch my limbs before opening my eyes again. Damon's still looking at me with that same tender expression. His hand reaches over to my face to brush a stray tendril of hair behind my ear.

"I should probably leave so you can go back to sleep."

_No_. I don't want him to leave. I want him to stay and talk with me, and I grab his wrist when he goes to stand up. "Don't leave. Stay here."

The gentle look on his face softens even more. "I'm going to change into something to sleep in while you change into my clothes, and when I finish I'll come back. Okay?"

"You'll really come back?"

"I promise."

The bed lifts, and when I hear the creak of the bedroom door I reluctantly sit up and start to take off my clothes. I debate whether or not to remove my bra, seeing as I usually sleep without one, but I decide that it would cross one of the lines that hasn't been sleep haze-muddled by my brain just yet. I shiver when I look around the elegant bedroom and realize that I'm wearing nothing but my underwear in Damon's house. For a moment, I feel empowered. Sexy. Then the more conscious part of my brain reminds me how inappropriate this is, and I quickly scramble to toss his oversized University of Virginia t-shirt and silky black sleep pants onto my body.

I'm pulling my hair out from underneath the shirt when a soft knock sounds on the door. "Elena? You decent?"

_Unfortunately_. "Come in."

The door opens, and Damon quietly pads into the room wearing another University of Virginia t-shirt that's fraying at the sleeves and gray sweatpants. I stare at him as he closes the door. I've never seen him so casual. He's always in button-ups and dark jeans or pants, and he definitely looks hot in those, but there's something about seeing him bare-footed and comfortable that just tugs at my heartstrings.

I clear my throat. "I don't think I've ever seen you so dressed down."

He chuckles as he crosses the room to sit next to me on the bed. "Do you think I can get away with this look at school?"

"You'll have to convince the department chair to institute a Casual Friday policy."

A yawn emerges that I can't muffle, and I cover my gaping mouth with my hand. "Sorry about that."

He frowns at me. "Are you sure I shouldn't let you get to sleep?"

"I'm okay, really. I like talking with you."

His frown disappears. "I like talking with you, too."

I lay my head down on the pillows on my side of the bed. Damon joins me after some hesitation. We lie in place and look at each other in companionable quiet.

"Thanks for hosting Thanksgiving, Damon." I adjust the pillow and cover another yawn with my hand. "I really liked seeing your house."

"I really liked having you here," he admits, his blue eyes locking with my brown ones. "I can't remember the last time there's been this many people in the house at once."

"Does it get lonely being out here by yourself?"

He hesitates. "I've become an expert at doing things on my own," he finally says, rolling onto his back. He stares up at the ceiling. "Sometimes it's not so bad."

I frown, wondering if he felt any pains from Dr. Pierce's Thanksgiving absence. "You didn't feel lonely today, did you?"

He continues to look at the ceiling. "I never feel lonely when I'm with you, Elena."

My heart pounds at the sheer joy that his utterance gives me. It then pounds even harder at the gross injustice that this bright, giving man's gifts are being wasted on a woman who doesn't deserve to benefit from them. "Damon?"

"Hmm?"

I pause, but my heart needs to know the answer to the question I asked him on Monday so badly. "Why are you dating Dr. Pierce?"

When he doesn't immediately answer, I curse myself for resurfacing this topic that's clearly a sore to us both. Stupid me allowed Damon's sincere compliments to make me bold and ask him to stay with me. I keep crossing the lines that I create for myself—

"I first met Katherine at a conference in Chicago last November," he suddenly says, abruptly stilling my thoughts. "I was about to present an abridged version of my dissertation to a room filled with at least two hundred people. I felt so terrified that I spent an hour beforehand puking my lunch in a bathroom stall. This paper was my life's research. I'd spent so many hours researching and writing it, the words on those pages felt like they were an engrained part of me. I'm sure you feel the same way about your novel, right?"

"Of course."

"Anyways, when I eventually calmed myself down enough to go into the conference room, I walked up to my seat on the panel and sat down. Two seconds later, I heard the chair beside me move, and when I looked over, I saw the most beautiful woman in the world grinning at me. I remember comparing how Katherine's gaze felt on me to the feel of being struck by lightning. I was frozen in my seat as we appraised each other, and I felt like such a fool for being rendered so mute."

"I can imagine," I murmur, trying not to scowl. Damon sighs and continues to stare at the ceiling.

"I felt like my blood had turned to liquid electricity the entire panel just for being near her. When it was finally my turn to speak, she placed her hand on my thigh just as I was standing up to go to the podium. She leaned towards me and whispered in my ear, 'Impress me, handsome'. Of course that just made me even more nervous. There was no way anything I had to say would impress this woman. She carried herself so highly. It was like she knew that she was better than any of us in the room, and anything I had to say would just sound like gibberish to her."

"Well, I stammered my way through my presentation. I thought it could have gone better, but afterwards I had a dozen or so people approach me and compliment me on my research. I didn't want to talk to any of them, though. I only wanted to talk to her, and I was crushed when I didn't see her anywhere. I reluctantly gathered my things, and when I looked up, there she was, staring at me with a come-hither expression that turned my legs to jelly."

He laughs. "She told me to cancel any plans I had that night because I was taking her to dinner. I was so turned on by her forwardness. I knew that nothing would stop this woman from getting what she wants, and the fact that _I _was what she wanted blew my mind. When we talked that night over dinner at one of Chicago's best restaurants and she told me about all of her accomplishments, I felt even more baffled that she'd bother to spend time with me. I resolved that if this woman agreed to go on a second date with me, I'd do everything in my power to impress her."

"How's that working out for you?" I can barely keep the bitterness out of my voice. Damon rolls on his side and faces me.

"At first it was great, you know? I was finishing my doctorate in Virginia, and she had her job here in Atlanta, so the long distance thing worked well for us because we couldn't afford to see each other all of the time. She always told me about the research trips she went on to Bulgaria, and I'd tell her what schools wanted to interview me. By this point, I was sick of long distance. I wanted to be with her, and I asked her if she'd mind if I applied to the U of A. I remember feeling hurt when she didn't immediately say yes. She always acted like she wanted to be with me when we visited each other every month or so, so I was really surprised when she asked me if I really wanted to be in Atlanta. I did, so I applied for the job. I'd already met Ric and a lot of her other coworkers through the department events she took me to and I knew that they liked me, so it wasn't a surprise to either of us when I got the job offer. I moved back into the boarding house this summer, and I was pumped to spend more time with Katherine."

"I'm assuming she didn't feel the same way?"

"Apparently not." His eyes drift down to the design on the comforter. "I don't think I've done a single thing right in her eyes since I moved here in July. If I want to spend time with her, she yells at me for distracting her from her research. If I try to give her the space she asks for, she berates me for not prioritizing her. I don't know what she wants from me, and I'm exhausted from trying to figure it out."

As I look at Damon, I realize that the circles under his eyes have grown darker since I first met him in late August. "Does she still make you happy?"

I could burst from the anticipation of hearing his answer. "When I'm with Katherine, I remember feeling that for the first time in my life, someone wanted me to succeed. Father and Stefan thought that pursuing a History Ph.D. was a waste of time, but here was this gorgeous woman who shared my passion for the subject, and she just happened to be interested in me. I wanted to be worthy of her so badly. Part of me still does."

"Being worthy isn't the same thing as being happy," I point out in a soft voice, trying not to cry at how tightly he's still wound around her little finger. "You've got so much to offer someone, Damon. Don't waste your time on someone who doesn't appreciate everything you are. There are plenty of women out there who can support you and make you happy."

He goes quiet for a second, and I'm so sad that I just want to roll over and cry myself to sleep. How can he not see how toxic Dr. Pierce is to his sense of self-worth? How does he not know how special he is? How can—

"Elena?"

I try not to sniffle. "Yes?"

He quiets again. "What if I met an incredible woman who makes me want to be a better person in all aspects of my life _and_ who makes me happier than anyone I know, but we can't be together because of current circumstances?"

My breath hitches in my throat as I try to process the implications of his words. Could he mean…? No, he's probably talking hypothetically…but maybe he's not…

I finally formulate an answer. "If I met someone like that, and I was currently dating someone, then I wouldn't waste any more time with a person who I knew wasn't right for me." My heart's pounding so hard, and I hope that Damon doesn't hear the tremors in my voice.

Damon's brow crinkles. "Even if it's going to take months or years for the circumstances to change so you can be with that person?"

"If he's into me as much as I'm into him, then I hope that he'd be patient and proactive enough to straighten things out on his end so that when the circumstances finally align for us, we can be together."

Damon nods. As my mind spins from everything that's been said in this bedroom, Damon reaches for my hand. "You know you're my best friend, right?"

I wish I could form a coherent response, but I'm so dumbfounded by his admission that I simply lay there and stare and him. He doesn't seem to be thwarted by my non-responsiveness. "I can't tell any of that stuff to Ric, but I feel like I can tell you anything." He pauses. "I've never had anyone like that in my life."

My heart _aches_ right now, and all I can do is give his hand a squeeze. "I'll always be here for you, Damon. You can count on me."

"I know."

I yawn again, and Damon rolls over to look at the digital clock on the opposite nightstand. "Shit, it's two in the morning."

I slide underneath the covers on my side of the bed and turn off the lamp on the nightstand closest to me. "We talked for a while."

"I should let you get some sleep," Damon says, his face illuminated by the orange glow of the lamp light on his side. He still looks so sad, and I know that I should let him leave, but I can't bear to see him walk out of that bedroom door with so much weight on his shoulders.

"Stay."

He surveys my face. "Yeah?"

I nod. "Please."

He studies my face for a moment before nodding. "I'll grab a blanket."

I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding as I watch Damon walk over to the closet and retrieve a fleece blanket. He walks back to the bed and spreads the fleece on his side before slipping beneath it. I stay on my side of the bed as he turns off his lamp, feeling my eyelids flutter shut.

"Goodnight, Damon."

He interlocks my fingers with his. "Goodnight, Elena."

* * *

><p><strong>A belated Happy New Year to you! And in honor of the Thanksgiving theme of this chapter, I'm so thankful for you and all of the support you've shown BIYE. Please let me know what you thought of this chapter - it's more than twice the length of my usual updates, so I'm sure you can find something to comment on :)<br>**

**Thanks to everyone who's volunteered to assist me with the Capstone Project I'm completing next semester on fanfiction – what it is, why people read/write it, etc. I'm still looking for volunteers to answer a questionnaire about your fanfiction experiences. If you're interested, please PM me with your email address (the **_**email at domain dot com**_** format gets past the FF website filters) so I can email you the questionnaire in January. If you're on the fence and want more information, I'm more than happy to elaborate about my project!**


	39. Chapter 39

Damon's side of the bed is empty when I awake next morning.

As I sit up, I try to ignore the disappointment that pangs in my stomach. I thought our relationship changed after last night's confessional, but maybe it's wishful thinking for me to have so much hope in such a complex situation. After all, this wouldn't be the first time that Damon's admitted some major stuff and then pulled away from me.

I press my hand to Damon's covers and frown when I feel how cool they are. I wonder how long he actually stayed in my room last night – if he slept all night or if he snuck out the second I fell asleep.

This sucks.

I resign myself to getting out of bed when I see a piece of folded paper propped on the nightstand. My name's printed in Damon's elegant script. I stretch, snatch the note, and read it.

_**Pancakes?**_

I doubt that the grin on my face is due to the mention of breakfast foods.

My instinct is to rush to the kitchen, but I look down at myself and figure I probably shouldn't be seen in Damon's clothes if I don't want to bring unnecessary attention to us. I take a quick shower in the adjoining bathroom, change back into yesterday's outfit and leave Damon's folded clothes on the foot of the bed, and head downstairs.

Damon's head perks up when I walk into the kitchen. "Hey, you," he says, greeting me with a lazy smile.

"Hey." I sit at the kitchen island and prop my elbows on the countertop. Smells of pancake batter and bacon grease fill the air, and a stack of pancakes sits on a plate next to the stove. "Looks like you've been busy this morning."

"Well, I'd be a horrible host if I let everyone starve."

"Yes Damon, this Thanksgiving would be ruined if you didn't make me breakfast."

"Oh really?" His eyes have an impish glow to them as he pours dollops of batter into the skillet. "Well, we can't let _that_ happen."

I feel my face warm as Damon winks at me. "What can I do to help?"

"Can you cut the fruit in the refrigerator?"

"Of course."

We prepare our portions of breakfast in companionable quiet for the next twenty minutes. I'm struck by how fluidly we move around each other in the kitchen, how we hand each other the ingredients and utensils just as the other person asks for them, how we seem to anticipate each other's needs before they're expressed. I don't feel the need to fill the silence with forced chatter, and he doesn't flinch when we accidentally brush against each other in our motions. As I spoon the cut strawberries into a bowl, I have a sudden flash of Damon and I preparing breakfast in this kitchen together ten years from now. Gray hair dusts his temples and faint wrinkles show around my eyes, and when I grab plates to set the table, he looks over at me with the same cheeky grin he shared with me this morning. The vision feels so _real_ – as real as my passions for history and music, as real as the love I feel for my brother, aunt, and friends. I'm so staggered by the rush of emotion that floods me that I stop mid-action and prop my hands on the counter to brace myself.

"You okay?" Damon asks, snapping me out of my trance. "You look like you're in the middle of having a life-changing epiphany."

_If only he knew_. "Just trying to think about where that dungeon could be," I lie, walking the bowl out to the dining room table. "I'm still not entirely convinced that it exists."

"You still haven't found it?" Damon tuts at me as he adds more pancakes to the stack. "And I thought you were observant."

"I am observant! I can't help it if your house is huge and has a billion secret passageways!"

Damon laughs. "A _billion_ secret passageways?" He turns off the stove and moves the skillet to a cold burner. "Don't be ridiculous, Elena. This house has a _million_ secret passageways."

"Bullshit, Teach." We turn our heads and see Bonnie approaching the kitchen doorway. She breezes through it and makes a beeline straight to the plate of bacon. She grabs a strip off the plate and starts gesturing at Damon with it in her hand. "I'm calling your bluff right now on the secret passages _and_ the dungeon."

"Your skepticism hurts, Bennett," Damon says, clutching his heart. "I swear on Elena's novel that there are at least four secret passageways and one dungeon in this house."

"Hey, swear on your own novel!" He smirks at me before turning back to Bonnie and her raised eyebrow.

"Swearing on Gilbert's novel? Ballsy move, Teach," she says as Matt, Alaric, and Meredith file into the kitchen looking worse for the wear. Damon hands them each a glass of water which they voraciously guzzle. Matt looks back and forth between Damon and I but doesn't say anything. The six of us sit down at the dining room table and dig into breakfast.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day?" Alaric asks in between bites of Damon's delicious pancakes. Seriously, can this man cook everything? "Are you braving the Black Friday crazies?"

"Fuck no," Matt says. A haunted look appears on his face. "I still have nightmares from getting elbowed in the face _last_ Black Friday."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Donovan," Bonnie exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air. "You were in the way of that last R2-D2 alarm clock. Get over it."

"You elbowed me in the face!" Matt retorts. The rest of us exchange knowing smirks with each other as we wait to see where this argument goes. "How'd you like it if I elbowed you in the face to get a new mixer and told you to get over it?"

Bonnie shrugs. "No pain, no gain, Donovan." Damon and Alaric choke on their laughter, but a stony look from Matt quiets them.

Alaric clears his throat. "I'm guessing Black Friday is a no, then."

"What are you doing, Meredith?"

"I'm the lucky one who got stuck with call duty at the hospital tonight."

"Hopefully you won't have to deal with all of the morons who blew themselves up in the process of deep frying a turkey," Damon offers.

"Or anyone who sliced their finger instead of the vegetables," Matt adds. I notice the small smile that appears on their faces after each other's comment. Progress? Eh, probably not.

The six of us finish eating and help Damon load the dishwasher. At Damon's request, Alaric and I grab our Tupperware from our respective vehicles and fill it with yesterday's leftovers. Even though I'm stuffed to the gills, my mouth waters at the sight of so much delicious food...and the fact that I won't have to cook anything for the rest of the weekend.

Alaric looks at his watch. "Well, I think Mer and I are going to head out now." He shakes Damon's hand and claps him on the back. "Thanks for hosting Turkey Day, man. I had a great time."

"Yes, thank you, Damon," Meredith adds, embracing him in a hug. She turns to face myself, Matt, and Bonnie. "It was nice to meet you three. I'll be sure to stop by your bar to hear you guys play sometime."

"Looking forward to it," Matt says. Bonnie and I give each other knowing looks out of the corner of our eyes, and I give Alaric a goodbye hug to keep from cracking up.

As soon as the two of them leave, Matt pulls his cell phone from his pocket and looks at the screen. "We should probably head out now so I can drop you girls off before I head to the bar."

"Yeah, I guess so." I wonder if my voice sounds as resigned as I feel. Spending yesterday with Damon was so much fun, and I'm terrified that he's going to pull away from me as soon as we separate and he has time to think about everything we said to each other. I glance over at him and see that his eyes have dimmed to a dull luster.

I feel Bonnie's eyes on us. "I'm going to, uh, go check to make sure I have everything," she says, grabbing Matt's arm. "Come on, Donovan."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm going to elbow you in the face if you don't." She tugs him from the living room, leaving Damon and I there by ourselves.

"So..."

"Yeah..."

We stand there for several seconds. I'm thinking about our conversation last night. I wonder if he's doing the same. I open my mouth to thank him for hosting Thanksgiving, but he takes my wrist and leads me towards the basement staircase.

"Where are we going?"

He looks back at me and raises his finger to his lips. Some of the playful light in his eyes has returned, and my blood sizzles with the excitement of being alone with him. He leads me down the stairs and back into the basement before stopping at the side of the bar.

I raise an eyebrow at him as he disappears underneath the bar countertop. "What are you doing?"

"Just wait."

I wait. I wait some more. Nothing happens. I open my mouth to make a snarky comment, but my words die on my lips when I hear the sound of bricks scraping against each other. My eyes scan the brick wall for any new features that may have appeared. I inhale a gasp when I see the faint outline of a door protruding from the wall.

"Is that...?"

Damon grins. "Yeah."

I approach the door and trace the outline of the jutting bricks. I look through the small crack and see a dimly lit passageway that begs to be explored. I look back at Damon.

"Can I?"

He nods and extends his arm. "After you."

I feel like I'm channeling the spirit of Indiana Jones as I push the brick door aside and step into the crumbling passage. The sound of Damon's footsteps follow me as I make my way down the hallway. A musty smell fills the air, and cobwebs hang from the unlit iron lanterns that line the walls. The only thing that would make this scene any more homage to the Indiana Jones movies is if I had a decaying femur to carry as a torch. My eyes dart around as I step down the hallway, watching for rats, snakes, or other creepy crawlies.

At the end of the passage sits a wooden door with an iron padlock. A small square is cut out of the upper section of the door, and four iron bars stand in front of it.

"Wow," I whisper, as if speaking loudly will ruin the sanctity of this moment. "You really do have a dungeon in your house."

"Told you."

I'd roll my eyes at the smugness in his voice if I weren't so enthralled by this discovery. "This is so cool, Damon," I gush as my eyes settle on a pair of wrought-iron chains lying in a pile on the dirt floor. "Can you imagine how many people spent time behind these bars? How many stories the walls would tell if they could talk?" The wheels crank in my head as ideas for another book pop into my head, this time about the connections between the people who spent time in the same holding cell. I'm so lost in my little world that it takes awhile to register that Damon's not saying anything.

When I look over at him, he's staring at me with a dazed expression – almost as if someone conked him over the head with a bowling ball. A crooked smile quirks at the corner of his mouth, and he chuckles to himself as he shakes his head back and forth. My head tilts in question as I watch him.

"What is it? Are you laughing at me?"

"No! No, definitely not laughing at you," he says, continuing to shake his head. I cross my arms and give him what is probably the cleanest dirty look known to man.

"Then what is it?"

His chuckles continue as he walks over to the dungeon door and wraps his hand around one of the iron bars. "You're the only woman I know – well, maybe besides Bennett – who wouldn't freak out over being in a place like this."

"Why would I freak out? This place is incredible!" The dungeon door creaks as I open it and stand inside the small cell. "Granted, it's a bit dusty and I feel like I need to watch my feet for any zombies lurking in the shadows, but your personal dungeon is one of the coolest places that I've ever seen."

The smile remains on Damon's face as his head shakes again. "And you mean it, too. That's the part that really gets me – you're one hundred percent sincere about liking this place."

"Well, I wouldn't lie to you."

Damon quiets for a moment. "I wouldn't lie to you, either."

"_Yo Gilbert, where are you? Matt's getting antsy!"_

Bonnie's yell sounds faint in the underbelly of Damon's house, but her words have a strong effect on my emotions. I'm terrified that the bubble of trust Damon and I created for ourselves yesterday is going to pop the second I step outside the boarding house. I feel tears start to pool in my eyes as I follow Damon out of the dungeon cell and down the hidden passage. I dab them with my sleeve and sniffle.

Damon whirls around. His eyes widen. "Are you okay?"

_Damn it_. "Yeah," I lie, trying to smile. "I think I inhaled too much dust."

He crouches down to look directly into my eyes. The concern in his expression is more than I can bear, and I blink to keep the flood of tears at bay. It's almost too much when he reaches to my face and wipes away a rogue teardrop with his thumb.

"I'm really glad I got to spend Thanksgiving with you, Elena." His words are soft, but there's so much conviction behind them. Before I can open my mouth to respond, he pulls me into his chest and holds me close to him. I wrap my arms around his waist and breathe in his comforting scent. How can I feel so at home in the arms of a man who's unavailable to me on so many levels? What did I do to deserve this karmic torture?

I reluctantly withdraw from Damon's embrace and head towards the staircase. "So, I guess I'll see you on Monday?"

"I should probably let you get some work done this weekend." His voice is tinged with dejection. it echoes my own sadness.

"Yeah, I'm _really_ looking forward to that."

He smirks. "I bet you are." We continue to climb the stairs in silence before Damon stops and turns around to face me.

"We should meet outside of the office on Monday."

I'm so shocked that you could push me over with a feather. "What?"

Damon shrugs. "My office is so boring, and I'm sure you're sick of spending five hours in there every week. We should shake things up, go someplace exciting. Is there a place you haven't been to in a while that you really liked?"

I think for a moment. "There's a great vocal club that Caroline and I went to over a year ago...but it's about a thirty minute drive outside of the city."

"I'm willing if you are." He searches my face. "Stop by my office at the usual time and I'll drive us there."

"Are you sure?" I _know_ that no good can come of Damon and I going someplace decidedly non-academic on our own...but I'll be damned if I say that I don't want to go to this place with him. I don't know if I want him to take the out I offered or not.

"Yeah, let's have some fun."

As Bonnie, Matt, and I say our goodbyes to Damon and drive away in the truck, I'm quiet, lost in my thoughts as I stare out the window.

_Oh Damon, if you only knew the kind of fun I want to have with you._

* * *

><p>I spend the rest of the weekend rereading my novel with the specific intent to dissect Anne's relationship with James and Stephen. Damon's critique echoes in my head as I pore over the pages. Have I made Anne's role too large in a story that was originally intended to explore the relationship between two brothers? Does the way I've currently written the ending – with Anne denying herself a life with either Whitmore brother – really trivialize James and Stephen's pursuits of her? I make notes at the end of each chapter regarding the specific developments that occur between those three, and by the time I make it to the end on Sunday night, my mind spins with plans for alternate storylines and new dialogues.<p>

I'm going to need a _really_ stiff drink at the vocal club.

After my class ends on Monday, I head over to the faculty parking lot to meet Damon. He stands by his Camaro. The evening is brisk, and I see the faint outline of our breath.

"Sorry I'm late," I apologize, sliding into the passenger seat. "My professor wanted to talk to me after class about leading a writing workshop next semester."

His eyes look in the review mirror as he backs out of the parking space. "Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know." My brow furrows. "Only one MFA student gets to lead the workshop each semester, so the fact that they asked me to do it is a big deal."

"You're a great writer. Of course they'd pick you to teach."

I blush at his compliment. "Anyways, I don't know if I'll accept their offer."

"Why not?"

I hesitate to answer. "Because my schedule next semester only has room for one more extracurricular, and I haven't decided if I should lead the writing workshop or be your TA."

"Ah." Damon grimaces as he pulls onto the highway. "I wondered if you'd given my offer some thought."

I have. I've thought about being Damon's TA every moment since he offered that I haven't spent revising my novel. It's not the content of the course or the workload of being a TA that's holding me back. I can teach classes on history and music in my sleep, and I'm sure that Damon and I would split the workload of holding office hours and grading. No, the only thing that's prevented me from accepting the job is knowing that I'd have to spend six additional months in close proximity to a man who I'm head-over-heels bonkers about and not be able to do anything about it.

"I haven't decided anything yet," I admit. "I want to say yes, but I need to figure out if I can give your class the commitment it deserves."

Damon chuckles. "It sounds like you're asking me if we can go on a break."

"If only it was that easy," I tease, reveling in the lightheartedness of his laugh. "But in all seriousness, I don't want to tell you yes and then be forced to back out by whatever circumstances arise. If I tell you yes, I'm going to mean it."

Damon sighs. "I guess I have to respect you for wanting to give me an honest answer and stick to it," he grumbles, tapping a rhythm onto the bottom of the steering wheel. "For the record, I've been very good at restraining myself from texting you these past few days to ask if you've made a decision or not, and when you need me to write you a reference letter, I'm going to deliberately wait to submit it at the last moment so you have a taste of your own medicine."

"I'm not doing it on purpose!" I protest. "At least my lack of answer is propelled by good intentions. You're just being cruel!"

"I'd turn the letter in on time!"

"That's not the point, Damon!" When I gently slap him on the arm, he winces loudly.

"Are you trying to get us killed? Stop distracting the driver, Elena!"

"I hardly touched you!"

"Are you kidding? My arm feels like it's about to fall off! Who taught you how to hit like that, the Incredible Hulk?"

I roll my eyes at him. "You're hilarious," I deadpan. "And no, Bruce Banner had more important things to do than teach me how to hit. Captain America, on the other hand, was a _great_ teacher."

"Oh yeah? Did you happen to share a locker room with Black Widow?" he retorts, waggling his eyebrows. I huff and sit back in my seat.

"_Real_ mature, Damon."

"I'm the _king_ of mature, Elena."

He turns off the highway and follows my directions to the Blue Key Vocal Club, a lesser known jazz bar on the outskirts of Atlanta. I observe his expression as he steps out of the Camaro and studies the building.

"Well, at least _this_ place looks like it won't collapse on me at any second," he comments. I roll my eyes at his blatant insult of The Masquerade.

"If you're not nice, I'll tell the bartender to serve you nothing but water."

He clutches at his heart. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He sighs. "Way to hit a man where it hurts, Elena."

We walk into the Blue Key and beeline towards the bar. I have every intention of paying for my pint of Terrapin Pumpkin Fest beer, but Damon tells the bartender to add it to his tab.

"Can I pay for the next round?" I ask as we settle at a table equidistant from the stage and bar. Damon raises his eyebrow at me in what I assume is his version of a "Bitch, please" look.

"No."

"But Damon—"

"I told you Elena, you'll never have to pay for any drinks as long as you're with me," he interrupts before taking a sip of his trademark bourbon. "I _want _to pay for your drinks. Makes me feel like some of Mom's chivalry rubbed off on me."

It's tough to argue with Damon when he plays the Mom card. "Can I bring something else to our table of friendship? I feel like a mooch for not buying any of our drinks."

Damon raises his eyebrow at me again. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Elena, than bourbon and beer."

"Hold on, Hamlet. I'm not drunk enough to handle your Shakespearian soliloquies."

He lifts his glass to mine. "Let's remedy that, shall we?" We clink, drink, and lean back in our seats.

The live music isn't scheduled to start until six, so Damon and I talk about my novel for the next thirty minutes. I relay some of the issues I found with James, Stephen, and Anne's interplay when I reread the story, and he listens as I vocalize the various paths I think I could take to improve the story, saying his piece only when I've stopped talking. By the time the room fills and the lights dim, I have a clearer picture of the direction I want to take my story, and I'm ready to sit back and enjoy the music.

A middle-aged man wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt walks onto the small stage. After our applause simmers, he speaks into one of the two microphones. "Hello, I'm Max and on behalf of the establishment, I'd like to thank everyone for coming to the Blue Key tonight. We're so excited about the two artists we've got for you this Monday evening. They usually play with their bands on Bar Street, but tonight they've agreed to grace us with their time and talent. Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to welcome Klaus Mikaelson of The Originals and Caroline Forbes of Donovan's Band!"

Everyone around my and Damon's table starts clapping, but he and I stay frozen in our seats as Caroline and Klaus take the stage. I think my lower jaw has dropped to the floor. Maybe I've entered another dimension. I watch Klaus adjust the tuning on his acoustic guitar as Caroline shifts her position on the bar stool.

Holy shit, they're _playing_ together.

Holy shit, they're playing _together_.

I feel Damon's hand tap my shoulder. "Is that…?"

"Yes."

"Does Tyler know…?"

"I don't think so."

We quiet as Klaus raises his fingers to the guitar strings. He strums the introductory chords to Bruce Springsteen's 'Fire' before singing the opening verse.

_I'm driving in my car, I turn on the radio  
>I'm pulling you close, you just say no<br>You say you don't like it, but girl, I know you're a liar  
>'Cause when we kiss, oh, fire<em>

His voice is honeyed gravel, unconventional soul and grit, and when Caroline's airy voice joins his in harmony, the entire room hushes at the marvel of them together. Even _I'm_ blown away at how well their voices complement each other. I wonder if Caroline was always so resistant to the idea of performing with him because she felt scared of the onstage magic she'd create with Klaus.

I wonder what convinced her to finally say yes to him.

As they conclude the song and slip into 'St. James' Infirmary', I shift my focus from the quality of their music to their interaction on stage. The last time Caroline mentioned Klaus, she wanted nothing to do with him and his "arrogant, talentless, goddamned _British_ arse". Now? Their voices harmonize as if they're lost halves of the same soul. Desperation laces their vocals as if they need the other to continue the song. If their eyes aren't closed, the looks in their eyes as they sing to each other are that of stark hunger. I've experienced few things in my life that are as captivating as their onstage chemistry. I couldn't tear my eyes away from them if I tried.

'St. James' Infirmary' turns into John Mayer's 'Gravity', and I wonder why he didn't record it as a duet in the first place. 'Gravity' slides to The Beatles' 'Because', and I melt into Damon's shoulder at how beautifully their vocals flow together. They nail song after song after song, and my limbs feel like liquid Jell-O because I'm so blissful.

"We've got one more song for you before we take a small break," Caroline says. She takes a deep breath, and for the first time tonight I see a strain of fear in her eyes. My brow furrows, and I fight my instincts to approach her. I'm grateful when Damon places his arm across my shoulders and stills me. Of course, now my heart's pounding for a whole other reason, and I'm a ball of nerves when Caroline starts to play my favorite song by The Civil Wars.

_If I didn't know better, I'd hang my hat right there  
>If I didn't know better, I'd follow you up the stairs<br>Stop saying those sweet things you know I like to hear  
>The horns are blowing louder and the bailiff's drawing near<em>

Oh God.

This song. They had to sing this song when the lights are low and the booze in my system makes me vulnerable and I'm sitting next to _him_. The dim lights suddenly seem five hundred degrees warm. I lick my lips because they're suddenly dry. I stare at Damon out of the corner of my eye. The lighting creates a glow around his face that outlines his sharp features. His hair is rumpled from a day's worth of running his hands through it, and his eyes reflect the spotlights that shine on the stage. I stare because I can't help but marvel at such a brilliant, generous, compassionate man who has one of the best hearts I've ever known. I'm such a glutton for punishment because I _do_ know better for spending so much time with him, for allowing myself to feel things for him that are so much more than friendly.

I don't know if I can get myself out of this hole that I've dug for myself.

_There's a hole in what you're saying, I can plainly see  
>You have a lover waiting, but baby, you're right here with me<em>

I close my eyes to better absorb the lyrics. When I open them, Damon's eyes lock with mine. My breath hitches in my throat. We stare at each other as Caroline and Klaus's voices fade to the background. My breathing becomes shallow. I know I should tear my gaze away but I can't bring myself to break our connection. A strand of hair escapes from behind my ear. I reach to push it back, and Damon's hand touches mine. We freeze in place. His touch warms my entire body, and I instinctively lean into his hand. He doesn't move. I don't pull away. I can't.

_Why don't you keep drinking  
>Get me one night with you<br>If I didn't know better  
>Well damn it, I do<em>

The song ends. The room leaps to their feet and applauds. Damon and I remain still. His eyes drift down to my lips. Mine fall to his mouth. We stare at each other for a beat too long before I break our touch and stand at our table.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom."

Damon's hand is still frozen in midair. His eyes have a glazed look to them. "Yeah. Sure." His voice is husky. I nod. I keep nodding all the way to the bathroom.

I push the doors open and pace back and forth in front of the sink. I'm too worked up to stay still. That just happened. I don't know how to begin processing it, I just know that was a big moment, a _huge_ moment, and I don't know what to do.

Caroline bursts through the bathroom doors. "Elena," she stammers, clutching her purse to her chest. "How are you here? _What_ are you doing here?" She babbles questions as I struggle to regain control of my breathing. When she stops talking long enough to take a closer look at me, her eyes widen.

"Elena, what's wrong?"

I press my hands on the sink as she locks the bathroom door and rushes back to me. Her hands rub soothing circles on my back, and I focus on those patterns until I calm myself down. When I can finally speak, she looks at me with a concerned expression.

"I'm here with Damon."

Her eyes widen, but to her credit, she keeps her cool. "On a date?"

I shake my head. "No, but we just had a moment, and he's still with Katherine, and it's so wrong to be with him like this but I can't help myself, and I had no idea that you were performing with Klaus at all, let alone at the Blue Key tonight, and everything's such a big mess, Caroline."

She pulls me into her body and lets me rest my head on her shoulder. "I'm not cheating on Tyler with Klaus, if that's what you were wondering," she admits after a brief period of quiet. I nod against her body.

"I know."

She sighs. "I think I'm in trouble, Elena."

My sigh echoes hers. "I think I'm in trouble, too."

* * *

><p><strong>Hi readers! I'm still speechless from all the love you showed me last chapter. Thanks for taking the time to leave me your feedback!<strong>

**To everyone who volunteered to participate in my Capstone Project, I met with my advisor this afternoon to review the questions I want you to answer. We're making some additions and revisions, but I still plan to email it to everyone by the end of the month. Thanks for being so patient with me as I organize everything on my end. **

**Quick (informal) survey: what are your favorite TVD episodes from Season 1?**


	40. Chapter 40

Caroline and I sit on the Blue Key bathroom sink and lean on each other for five minutes. We're quiet. I'm lost in my frantic thoughts, and I can tell by her silence that she's also thinking about her troubles. Her warmth is comforting, and I eventually calm my frazzled nerves.

"I don't think I should drive home with Damon."

I feel her nod against my head. "I'll take you home. Klaus and I drove here separately."

"Thanks."

We grow quiet again until Caroline suddenly pops off the sink and stands to face me. "Okay, here's what we're going to do," she says. Her eyes flash with fierce resolve. "You're going to return to your table with Damon and I'm going to finish this set with Klaus. There will be no talk of moments or feelings or anything that makes us think inappropriate thoughts about these men because we're going to act _normal_. When this gig is done, you're going to drive home with me and not Damon, only instead of going home we're going to confess everything to each other over an oversized bowl of ice cream at Morelli's. Deal?"

I can't help but smile at her determination. "Deal."

We hug each other, take deep breaths, and unlock the bathroom door. A line of angry women awaits us. Their frowns subside ever-so-slightly when they see that it's Caroline, but she and I are shoved to the side as they rush to claim a bathroom stall.

I walk back to my seat as Caroline heads towards the stage. Damon looks up at me with a nervous expression. "Everything okay?" he asks in a soft voice. His gentleness restarts my subdued urges to snuggle up to him for the remainder of the set.

So much for _not_ thinking those inappropriate thoughts.

"Everything's good," I confirm, watching Caroline flounce onstage ahead of Klaus. His lips press together in a thin line as he stares at her with a hungry look. She, on the other hand, appears completely unaffected by the way he so obviously craves her, and she settles onto her stool with her pretty features set in gritty resilience. I shake my head at this emotional mess that she and I have found ourselves in.

Skepticism fills Damon's eyes as he watches me over the rim of his bourbon glass. He follows the line of my sight to where Caroline and Klaus sit on stage. "Looks like they had words backstage."

"Yeah, Caroline's pretty torn up about whatever's happening between them." The Blue Key lights dim to the sound of applause. I look at Damon. "Is it okay if I ride home with her? I think she needs some girl time to figure things out."

Damon takes another swig of bourbon as Klaus plays the opening guitar lick to the Johnny and June Carter Cash's version of 'It Ain't Me, Babe'. I can't help but laugh at the blatant message of the song. To someone as musically sensitive as Klaus, song lyrics are the best way to burst his bubble, and Caroline _definitely _knows how to hit a man where it hurts.

"Sure, if that's what she needs," Damon eventually whispers over the music. He's nonchalant on the surface, but I can tell by the way his brow furrows that he doesn't like this change of plans. I can't decide whether his reaction makes me feel happy or sad.

Forty-five minutes, eight songs, and one promise to text Damon when I'm back in my apartment later, I sit in the passenger seat of Caroline's car as she drives us back to downtown Atlanta. The interior of the car buzzes with our frustrated energy. Hell, the fact that Caroline, usually as spastic a driver as they come, has her hands locked in the ten and two positions on the steering wheel is a sure sign that she's got something major on her mind.

"Tonight was unsettling."

God bless Caroline and her willingness to dive right into uncomfortable conversations. "Unsettling's a good word to describe this evening."

"I never thought I'd be in this situation with _him_, Elena. I can't stand him. Being around him is insufferable."

I resist the urge to suggest that spending time with Klaus is probably not as insufferable as she claims it is. "Why don't you tell me everything from the beginning and we'll figure out what to do about your predicament, okay?"

She gives me the side-eye. "Promise me you won't judge me too badly?"

I bark out a laugh. "Caroline, Damon and I fell asleep together twice AND we almost kissed tonight. If anything, _you're_ going to judge _me_."

Her eyes widen at my admission. To her credit, she simply nods. "Yep, your problem is totally worse than mine."

"Oh good, your story can be my opening act in this night of fucked up inappropriateness. Now spill."

She sighs. "Remember how Klaus and I made the bet when we played for the performance rights to the _Rocky Horror_ Halloween show? How if we won, I'd get to choose what characters The Originals dressed as and if they won, I'd have to sing with him?"

I nod. "We won."

"We won _that_ bet," she corrects, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. "And when I ran into Klaus in the music store a few days after we won the _Rocky Horror_ rights, you can bet your butt that I bragged. A lot. I mean, if you win a bet against your eternal enemy, you _have_ to brag about it, you know? So yeah, I bragged, and Klaus, being Klaus, gave me that stupid, smirky face of his and told me in that stupid British accent of his that I got lucky and that I'd never win another bet against him."

Her knuckles turn white as her fingers clench the steering wheel. "I _knew_ that he was trying to get under my skin and I swore to myself that I was too smart to be seduced by his tricks, but then he just kept talking and saying all of these infuriating things about how The Originals should have won and how the odds were stacked in our favor, blah blah, blah, and I opened my big mouth and told him that if he enjoyed humiliation that much, all he had to do was make another bet against me. Well, then that stupid smirk grew even wider and those goddamn dimples appeared out of nowhere, and he said, 'What shall we wager to, love?'"

She grows silent. I'm so enthralled by this story that I prod her for more. "What _did_ you wager?"

"That time? Whoever sold more sheet music to random strangers in the music store that day became a proud owner of an item from the loser's personal collection of music memorabilia."

"_That_ time?" My mouth falls open. "Caroline, how many bets are there?"

"I won that first bet, thank you for your interest," she snaps, pulling off the highway. "For the record, Tyler's receiving a copy of a never-released, mint condition record from 1977 of the Sex Pistols' 'God Save the Queen' that you and I bought off an ignoramus at a yard sale. Got it?"

"Got it. How many bets have you made with Klaus?"

She ticks them off on her fingers. "He lost a game of pool to me and had to buy my ten journalism friends drinks for the rest of the night while I went home and had a quiet night in with Tyler. Then I had a total brain melt and messed up the lyrics to David Bowie's 'Queen Bitch' during a trivia contest, so I had to present the news that night wearing nothing but my underwear on my lower half while he watched from the control room. I purposely went out and bought the most horrid pair of granny panties I could find for that one. You should have seen the way his eyes bugged out of his face when I stood up after the broadcast ended."

I chuckle, though I'm sure that the sight of Caroline in any sized panties is enough to fuel Klaus's shower fantasies for the rest of his existence. "What was tonight's bet?"

She growls under her breath. "It's so stupid, Elena. Tyler and I got into a fight a few weeks ago over something dumb like doing the dishes. I wanted to go somewhere he couldn't find me, so I went to the Fernbank Science Center. I mean, I love Tyler so much, but sometimes he can be really intense and I need my space from him, you know?"

Caroline's lip quivers. I give her some time to calm down. "I know, Care. Everyone needs that space from their significant other, especially when you live with him or her."

"Yeah." Her voice now shakes with a faint tremor. "Anyways, I went to the Science Center because all I wanted was to sit by myself in the planetarium and look at some fake stars and maybe cry a little. Well, apparently that's too much to ask for, because I go to buy my ticket to the next planetarium show, and guess who just happens to waltz up to the ticket counter and buy my ticket for me? Klaus! The very last person I wanted to see! And of course, by that time during the day I was so fed up with everything that I was a hair's length away from going all _Kill Bill_ Bride on the entire building, and what does Klaus do? He actually has the gall to look concerned and ask me what's wrong and what he can do to make me smile! I told him that he could leave me the hell alone, but no, he couldn't accept something as simple as that. Oh no, he chose to buy out the planetarium for the rest of the day so I could have the place to myself!"

My eyes widen. "He bought the entire planetarium for the two of you?"

"Yes! I mean, who does that, Elena? And the worst part about it is that I wanted to see those fake stars so badly that I went along with his pompous chivalric gesture. I actually sat one seat away from Klaus in the planetarium for the next three hours. Do you know how hard it is to hold in your tears for three hours around someone you never ever want to see you cry?"

"It's impossible," I admit, thinking of all the times I've cried or been close to crying in front of Damon.

"Yeah, it is. Tyler always freaks out when I cry. But Klaus…"

She quiets as we stop at a red light. I sit patiently and wait for her to regain her control, knowing that confessing my secrets to her will be just as emotional.

"…Klaus just started _talking_. He told me stories about growing up in England and how he knew he wanted to be a musician when he was five and his mom played 'Let It Be' for him, and after that he just kept talking about the best concerts he's been to and how he dyed his hair black when he was sixteen because he went through a horrid My Chemical Romance phase, and it actually worked, you know? The more I listened to him talk, the more he distracted me from thinking about my own issues, and before I knew it, I was actually telling him about the time I dyed my hair with red Kool-Aid and it turned out pink instead. We just kept talking to each other, and when the last planetarium show ended, he led me into the fauna exhibit and pulled out a sketchbook. Did you know that Klaus is an award-winning artist in Great Britain?"

"I did not."

"He won some Rising Star award when he was ten, but he didn't enter any more contests because his jackass Dad thought he should spend his time pursuing something useful like medicine or sports," she scoffs. "He's so good, Elena. He showed me his sketchbook, and I've never seen such lifelike charcoal drawings. I told him that he was really good, and he smiled and asked me to sit with him while he sketched."

We pull into the Morelli's parking lot. Caroline sighs and cuts the engine. "I sat with him until the Science Center closed two hours later, Elena." She leans forward and scrubs her face with her hands. "What is _wrong_ with me? I don't want to be some floozy who allows her affections to be bought by every musician with a British accent and eyes that belong in the freaking tropics! I swore to myself that I'd never sing with him, but when I thanked him for his company and asked if I could make it up with him, he asked me to sing with him tonight and I don't know, I must have been high from whatever plants he was sketching because I said yes!"

"Wait." I pause as we get out of the car. "You're saying that you and Klaus tonight…that wasn't the result of a bet?"

She looks down at the ground, her silence all the confirmation I need. Her lip trembles as a fat tear slips from the corner of her eye. I race around the front of the car and engulf her in a hug. Her tears wet my jacket, and I simply keep smoothing her hair and whispering soothing words in the middle of the Morelli's parking lot as she bawls into my shoulder.

Her cries eventually give way to her shivers because holy hell, it is _cold_ outside. I rub my hands up and down her arms to generate some warmth for the two of us. "Want to go inside and warm up by eating cold bowls of ice cream?"

"Yeah, because _that_ makes sense."

"Come on." We link arms and walk up the stairs into the old-fashioned ice cream parlor. It smells of burnt sugar and chocolate. Caroline and I inhale the sweet air at the same time, and as I exhale, some of my tension filters its way out of my body. It's almost as if I'm clearing space for the stress that I'll inevitably experience when it's my turn to talk.

We order and settle down with our bowls of Salted Caramel and Blueberry Rosewater at a small table in the back of the building. I scoop some ice cream onto my spoon and place it in my mouth, rolling my eyes at the sheer pleasure of the flavors on my tongue. Caroline mirrors my action.

"So yeah," she says through a purple mouthful, "I'm a horrible person who sneaks around her amazing boyfriend's back to sing duets with a dangerously attractive man who may actually have a small morsel of goodness in that cocky personality of his. Yay me."

"You're not a horrible person, Caroline," I say in between bites of Salted Caramel goodness. "You didn't plan for this to happen, right?"

"Not at all."

I level her with a stare. "So…what are you going to do about it?"

She quiets and sets her spoon down in her half-full bowl. "I love Tyler," she finally says, swirling her spoon in the melting ice cream. "I _know_ that I love him. I'm not confused about that. But…but I guess I also want to see if Klaus and I could actually be friends if I give it a chance."

"Just friends?" I press. She hesitates before nodding.

"These sparks I feel for him? Yeah, they're exciting, but they're also terrifying and make me feel unstable. I think that if I'm ever going to feel comfortable around him, I need us to have a foundation that's built on friendship, you know?"

"Yeah, I do know," I say, thinking about the friendship that Damon and I have forged over the past several months. Sure, I thought he was hot when we first met, but I wouldn't be as attracted to him now if I didn't know the man behind his beautiful face.

Caroline sighs and spoons another bite of ice cream into her mouth. "I'm going to have to tell Tyler that I want to be friends with Klaus, aren't I?"

"It's probably better if you're upfront with him about Klaus. I wouldn't put it past Klaus to taunt Tyler with your new friendship. I think you should at least give him the heads up."

"He's going to flip," she groans under her breath, stabbing at her remaining ice cream. I shrug in acknowledgement that yes, Tyler most certainly will _not_ be happy with the concept of his girlfriend spending more time with his mortal enemy.

"He'd flip even more if he was blindsided."

"You're right. Of course you're right." She springs from her seat and grabs her ice cream bowl. Her limbs coil with tension as she walks over to the nearest trash can and throws the bowl away. When she settles back down, a look of weary acceptance fills her eyes.

"Okay, now that we've established how messed up _my_ life is, we need to talk about you. Spill. Everything."

I do. I tell Caroline how Damon and I first met and how we started off on the wrong foot when I went to his office and saw him stumble out with Dr. Pierce in tow. I tell her how the story I'm writing for my thesis is a semi-fictional account of his relationships with his father and brother and how that realization led to his confession that he avoids music because it reminds him of his dead mother and music-prodigy brother. I tell her about laser tag and the CDs, about waking up next to him the morning after Halloween and again on Black Friday. I tell her how I almost asked Alaric to advise me again and how he apologized via flowers and concert tickets. I conclude by telling her that I have to choose between leading a writing workshop or being Damon's TA next semester by the end of the week and I don't know what to do.

"Whoa." Caroline's eyes grow comically wide at the end of that last confession. "It's like you're in a living version of 'Don't Stand So Close to Me' except for the minor fact that your teacher's giving you these "come hither" signals."

"I wouldn't call them "come hither" signals...they're more like "I can't decide how I feel about you" signals," I correct. Caroline nods and leans forward on the table.

"Remind me again why the two of you can't just go for it?"

"He's still in a relationship with Dr. Pierce."

"Ah yes, the whole monogamy thing. Good to know you're not willing to settle for being the other woman." Caroline taps her finger on her cheek. "What if they did break up? Would anything stop you then?"

I recite from memory. "All professors at the University of Atlanta are prohibited from engaging in romantic or sexual relationships with students or supervisees who are in their department or over whom they have academic responsibility. Failure to comply with this policy will result in immediate student expulsion and professor termination and potential legal prosecution," I drone, grimacing as I do so. I've read the U of A Student and Faculty Handbook _so_ many times since Halloween. I'm pretty sure I know more about our policies than the people who created them.

"Wow." Caroline releases a low whistle. "That's unforgiving."

"You think?" I groan and rest my head on my arms. "So even if the heavens aligned and Damon broke up with the she-bitch, he and I couldn't pursue anything until I graduate in May."

She leans forward in a conspiratorial manner. "Would you sneak around and date him in secret?"

I adamantly shake my head. "It's an appealing thought, and god knows I've read enough of your slutty romance novels to get me all hot and bothered at the idea of a forbidden romance. But the reality of the situation is that if we're found out, I'd get expelled. He'd lose his job. I can't let that happen to either of us. I…"

I stop mid-sentence as I struggle to put everything I feel for Damon, the things I know and the things I'm still trying to understand, into words. "…I care about him," I finally say. It's a deceptively simple statement, but there's so much weight behind those four words.

Caroline's focused expression softens. "Oh, Elena," she murmurs, reaching across the table to take my hands. "Are you in love with him?"

I shake my head again. "No. Not love. As long as he's dating Dr. Pierce, I won't let myself feel that way." I pause, considering everything once more. "But I'm so close to that edge that it won't take a grand gesture to push me over."

"It's like you're expecting it to happen, but you know you're going to realize it at an unexpected moment," Caroline clarifies. I nod and scrub my eyes with the heels of my hands.

"I keep thinking about what job to take next semester," I admit. My chest aches as the weight on my heart increases. "When I take Damon out of the situation, they're both really sweet gigs: TA for a class on music and history, or lead my own writing workshop. They're both right up my alley. I could flip a coin to decide and be happy with either result."

"But when you consider Damon's role…"

"When I consider Damon's role in my nest semester, I think I'll be miserable either way. If I lead the writing workshop, I won't be around him as much, which might mean that absence makes my heart grow fonder and I seek out his company more in off-campus settings. If I'm his TA, I'm committing myself to spending a good chunk of my week with him, either teaching in the classroom or lesson planning. That immediate proximity might force me to keep my libido in check, but it might also be too much for either of us to bear."

"Yeah, I totally get that." She slides my bowl of ice cream across the table and eats its last bites. "When do you have to tell him?"

"Friday."

"Okay, that's plenty of time to think things through. Ooh, you could make a pros and cons list!"

"Yeah, maybe." I feel so dejected. I blink back tears and catch Caroline's glance. "Things are going to work out, right? Please tell me that my head and my heart aren't always going to be at odds with each other."

"Oh Elena, you're going to be _fine_. I wish I could be as confident in Tyler's acceptance of my friendship with Klaus."

I snort. "Yeah, good luck with that one," I tease. Caroline playfully shoves me.

"Elena Gilbert, you _bitch_."

We giggle together. It feels so good to giggle after such an emotionally tense night, and as I throw away my ice cream bowl and head out to the car, I feel slightly better – not about the situation with Damon, but in being able to confess everything to a nonjudgmental Caroline. Matt's normally my go-to person in tough situations, so I really need to stop underestimating Caroline's awesomeness.

When we're a five-minute drive from my apartment, she emits an excited squeal from the driver's seat. "You know what we haven't done in forever?"

"Ice fishing?" I quip. Caroline wrinkles her nose, but the giddy look doesn't leave her face.

"No-Show Karaoke!"

"Oh my gosh, you're right!" I exclaim, sitting up in my seat. "We've all been so busy this semester. I completely forgot about it!"

"Let's go on Friday. Hopefully by then Tyler won't be mad at me, and you'll be able to accept whatever decision you make in as much beer and pop duets as you want."

"Spreading the word as we speak," I say, digging my phone out of my coat and sending a group text to Bonnie, Matt, and Tyler. Mere seconds after the message is sent, my cell chimes with three incoming text messages.

"Tyler has to close the gym that night so he'll be late, Matt's going to see if someone can cover the bar for him, and Bonnie says 'FUCK YEAH'," I read from my screen. Caroline pumps her fist as she pulls in front of my apartment. She puts her car in park and pulls me in for a hug.

"I'm so glad you were there tonight, Elena," she murmurs into my hair. "I don't know what would have happened tonight if you weren't around to calm me down."

"Same," I agree. We hold each other for a beat longer before pulling away. "Keep me posted on Tyler and Klaus, okay?"

"You'll probably get sick of all the "he hates me" texts you're going to get," she mutters. "And you better keep me informed about you and Damon. I refuse to suffer alone!"

"Think less about your frustration and more about what songs we're going to force the others into singing on Friday," I suggest, grinning at her. Her resulting smile mirrors my wide one.

"Oh, don't you worry. Matt's got a date with Aretha if I have anything to say about it."

* * *

><p>"I like this," Damon says, flipping through my revised pages. "I'm glad you gave us this extra scene with Stephen and James. It really forces us readers to stop and think about the trajectory of their relationship throughout your story."<p>

"Did I get the vernacular right?" I ask, sitting up on the couch in Damon's office. I kick my shoes off and fold my legs beneath me.

"For the most part, yes." His eyes skim down the page and settle on something that causes him to smirk. "I love derogatory Civil War slang. Blowhard, Copperhead..."

"Deadbeat, Grey Backs, Bluebellies..."

"Why don't we talk like that anymore? If hipsters can pretend that handlebar mustaches are actually attractive," he says, pausing to shudder, "you'd think they'd bring back some of the accompanying language, you know?"

I give him a look. "Do you _really_ want hipsters to be the spokespeople for your Great American Civil War Jargon Resurgence?"

He considers. "No, not really."

"In that case, I'd hold off on your revolution."

Damon stares at me with those blue eyes of his...and then he pouts. He pouts! "I'm sorry, I didn't know I was letting a five-year-old edit my novel," I retort in attempt to make him snap out of it, but _nooooo_, he just keeps on pouting and staring and I finally toss up my hands. "Fine! You can pick one Civil War-era word to try to bring back into relevance."

"Just one?" He continues to pout at me. It's the most adorable, disarming thing in the world. "Are you trying to destroy me? How do you expect me to pick a single word from the thousands that existed during the Civil War?"

"The same way I narrowed down the number of songs on your CDs."

"Oh. Right." He slides his binder over his desk to me, stands, and walks around the desk before settling on the other end of the couch. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"

I grin. "No-Show Karaoke with the band."

His eyebrows contort to form the most confused expression that I've seen in recent history. "But...you're already in a band."

"Yes."

"You get to perform the songs you want. Why would you go somewhere to sing stuff that you can play at the bar?"

"Well, we perform what we want for the most part. When the five of us first teamed up, we decided that we wanted to be a rock band with strong blues, folk, and metal influences, and we market ourselves that way to the Donovan's crowd." I pause to stretch one of my legs. "But we also enjoy a lot of music...guilty pleasures, really...that we wouldn't be caught dead performing as Donovan's Band, so every now and then we escape to a karaoke bar in the outskirts of the city to get these no-show songs out of our systems."

"Got it. Hey, hold on a second," he says, crossing his arms. "Are any of these "no-show" songs on the CDs you've made me?"

I pretend to look offended. "I am in charge of your musical education, Damon Salvatore! I'm not going to blemish your musical tastes with some god-awful crap music!"

"Elena Gilbert, I am _shocked_ right now! Shocked and appalled!" He clutches his hands to his chest. I roll my eyes to keep from laughing at his act. "I can't believe that you, my trusted teacher, are deliberately withholding information from me to make my music education as complete as possible! If I'm going to do this music thing properly, shouldn't I know what all of my options are?"

"If I started you with pop or trance or yokel-metal, you'd have run away screaming. I kept you from this stuff for your own good!"

He shakes his head and gives me a look of mock disappointment. "You sound like Mom did when she tried to keep me from looking at Dad's Playboy magazines."

If Mrs. Salvatore died when Damon was seven..."how old were you when you started reading Playboy?"

Damon's cheeky grin returns. "Who says anything about _reading_ it?"

"Oh!" I smack at his chest. "You are a brat, Damon Salvatore! A huge...pervy...brat!"

"I was six years old! Clearly the pictures were more exciting to me than the words!" he blurts between avoiding my blows. I huff and give up, sliding my shoes onto my feet as Damon watches me with an amused expression.

I look over at him. "You're ridiculous."

"Takes one to know one."

"That doesn't even make sense!"

"My statement still stands."

I roll my eyes and zip up my jacket. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Damon. I promise to let you know about the TA job by five."

"Hey, you should invite me to your karaoke night."

I stop in front of his door. "Oh, I should?"

He grins. "Yep. If you agree to be my TA, I can celebrate by depraving myself with teenybopper love songs about the power of two, and if you say no and choose the far less exciting position of writing workshop leader extraordinaire, I can console myself with teenybopper love songs about how I can't live this way."

My arms cross. "You're hilarious. And if you want to be a part of this night, you'll have to ask Caroline for permission. She's _very_ particular about who gets to hear our no-show songs."

His eyes lock with mine as he sidles up to me and reaches into my coat pocket. His fingers brush against my clothed stomach as he feels around for my cell phone, and I wonder if he can feel all of the butterflies in a tizzy in my tummy. He removes the device with a knowing smirk and proceeds to scan through my contacts. When he finishes entering Caroline's number into his phone, I snatch mine back.

"Feel free to give Caroline a heads up that she'll be hearing from me!" he calls as I walk down the McKenna hallway. I raise my hand in acknowledgment, and his laughter follows me down the stairwell.

Three hours later I receive a text from Caroline.

_**If your man breathes a word about how hard I rock a Taylor Swift song, there will be HELL to pay.**_

I laugh, then cut myself short as I think about what this really means.

Looks like Damon's hanging out with me and my band tomorrow night.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi, everyone! Thanks so much for all of your reviews and responses. I've been hard at work writing this chapter and prepping my questionnaire for all interested parties to complete. It's with my advisor, so I should email it to everyone within the week! (Quick apologies to those who have PMed me to volunteer and haven't heard back from me. I would love your help with my project and promise to respond to you in the next two days.)<strong>

**With that being said, I've set a deadline for myself to finish this story of middle of February. It's a daunting task, especially since there is still a LOT of story left to tell. In order to make this happen, I've decided to hold off on replying to reviews until BIYE is complete. I love hearing from everyone, but I assume – and correct me if I'm wrong – that you'd rather have new chapters than hear back from me. Your thoughts and love for this story fuels my writing, and I hope that you'll continue to give them to me.**

**I hope everyone has a good weekend – Go Ravens! **


	41. Chapter 41

"I can't believe I had to listen to you girls gossip for an hour in the car to be a part of your No-Show Karaoke night," Damon grumbles as the four of us – myself, him, Caroline, and Bonnie – walk into Karaoke Melody. Caroline sends him a deceptively sweet smile from over her shoulder.

"Oh, did I forget to mention that when you called me last night?" She playfully bats her eyelashes at him and winks at me. "Whoops."

He scowls as he surveys the landscape of the nondescript karaoke bar. "Why did you choose this dump in the first place? Can't you humiliate yourselves with cheesy songs someplace closer to Atlanta?"

"Watch it Teach, or we're going to submit _your_ name to sing 'I Touch Myself'," Bonnie barks. Damon looks at me with an expression of horror.

"I've never heard of this song, but singing it in front of anyone would probably provide you blackmail material for years, right?"

"Guess you'd better be nice to us tonight, huh?"

He smirks. "I'm _always_ nice to you, Elena."

The four of us make our way to an empty booth on the side of the room. A stack of song sign-up papers and pencils sits next to the stuffed five-inch binder of song options on the middle of the table. Caroline doles six song slips to herself, me, and Bonnie, and the three of us immediately start writing.

Damon rests his chin on my shoulder and reads as I write. "Why did you put Matt's name as the singer? Did he tell you what songs he wants to sing?"

I shake my head. "I should probably explain to you the rules of Donovan's Band No-Show Karaoke. It's pretty simple: there are five of us, so we each take six song sign-up papers. We're allowed to choose two songs for ourselves to sing, and then we have to choose four songs for everyone else."

"Duets count for both people, so if Elena wanted Bonnie and I to sing together, she'd only have Tyler, Matt, and her own songs left to choose," Caroline adds.

"Once we've filled everything out, we fold the papers and take them to Karaoke Maestro Jens over there," I point to a portly German man sitting in front of a clear object similar to a lottery ball machine, "and he adds them to everyone else's karaoke requests. He chooses who sings next by running the machine and seeing which folded song slip falls from its clutches."

"Wow." Damon exhales. "So even if Donovan's Band fills out a total of thirty song requests, there's a chance that none of you could sing."

"We usually all go about once or twice a night," I say, filling out the names on the remainder of my papers. "Though one night last year the only songs Jens's machine chose were ours, so we might as well have been headlining a show back at Donovan's."

Bonnie suddenly starts to snigger under her breath, barely stopping when the three of us look at her with raised eyebrows. "Do you remember the night this summer when the three of us all requested that Tyler sing 'It's Raining Men'? And it got picked all three times?"

"And when we got up to leave, two different men rushed over to Tyler to give him their numbers?" I jump in, chuckling as I think about the confused look on his face. "Oh God, that was one of the funniest things I've been a part of."

"Sounds like you guys try to screw each other over," Damon says, leaning back in his seat with an amused expression.

"That's one way of putting it."

"I prefer to think of it as expanding each others' boundaries and freeing our latent desires," I correct. "For example, if Matt's going to make my eardrums bleed by belting out 'Super Bass' every time he takes a shower, he can damn well sing it in front of the hundred or so people who show up tonight."

"I keep telling Forbes here that she'd love metal music if she just gave it a chance," Bonnie adds, smirking at Caroline as she writes something on the paper. Caroline's eyes widen as she tries to snatch the song slip from Bonnie's grasp.

"So help me God, Bonnie Bennett, if you make me sing another Megadeth song I swear to God you'll sing so many NSync songs that you'll think you're Justin Timberlake and rush out to get a perm to deal with your identity crisis!"

As Caroline and Bonnie wrestle across the table, Damon touches my arm. "Help me grab drinks?"

I slide out of the booth and lead him to the bar. Our arms press against each other as we squeeze to stand at the counter. I stare up at him after we place our order. "I'm glad you're here tonight."

The gentle smile on his face warms my body like sunlight. "I'm glad I'm here with you." He wraps his arm around my back and pulls me into him. I never want to leave his embrace, and it may be my imagination, but Damon's slow to release me when the bartender returns with our drinks. I resist the urge to scowl at his offense, instead grabbing two of the four drinks and returning to our table.

The newly arrived Matt and Tyler stand up to let us slide back to our spots at the back of the booth. Everyone's face registers their surprise when Damon and Tyler embrace with a handshake and a bro hug.

"You two know each other?" Caroline asks.

"Lockwood's my personal trainer," Damon explains. I'm equal parts astonished and tickled pink that Damon has another friend in Atlanta, and when he turns to see the bemused look on my face, he nudges me. "He and I spot each other when we lift weights. Sometimes we box. It depends on how much pent up, uh, energy I've got that day."

"Or frustration," Tyler adds, settling next to Caroline. "Seriously man, have you broken up with Katherine yet? You've done nothing but complain about that chick since you joined the gym."

My heart's beating so hard that I think it's going to thump its way right out of my chest. Five pairs of eyes whirl to stare at Damon. To his credit, he appears unfazed by our sudden attention. "I'm working on it."

"Why wait?" Matt demands. I'd shoot him a dirty look if I weren't so interested in Damon's response.

"Because Katherine is both really sneaky and really perceptive," he retorts, meeting Matt's narrowed look with a cool one. "There's a reason she jets halfway across the world whenever I need to have a serious conversation with her. She knows it's coming, and she'll avoid it by any means possible."

"You could do it over the phone—"

"Would _you_ break up with someone you dated for a long time over the phone?" Matt presses his lips together, and Damon continues. "I may be tired of her games, but that doesn't give me the right to start playing one of my own."

"Let us know if you need help cornering her, Teach," Bonnie interrupts. "I've got some bear traps in my storage unit that might come in handy."

Damon chuckles. "Thanks, Bennett. I'll keep you posted."

And just like that, the tension lifts.

Matt and Tyler get up to turn in their song requests and grab beers from the bar, and by the time they get back Karaoke Maestro Jens's machine is spitting out tonight's opening number. "Starting us off tonight is…Matt Donovan with Nicki Minaj's 'Super Bass'!"

The crowd roars with approval as Matt spews his beer all over his shirt.

"Which one of you did this?" he demands as the rest of us double over in laughter. I eventually raise my hand in acknowledgement.

"Matt, the rest of Atlanta needs to know how Tyler's got your heartbeat runnin' away," I say with a smirk.

"Unless you're leaving Tyler for Mer-e-dith," Bonnie drawls. I feel Damon shake with silent laughter as Bonnie and I crack up. Matt rolls his eyes.

"Don't forget, I know where the both of you live!" he calls as he walks up to the stage and takes the microphone. When the music starts, Bonnie and I lead the crowd in clapping to the beat.

At the end of the first chorus, Damon leans over to me. "What the hell is this Nicki chick singing about when she says she macks dudes up, backs coupes up, and chucks deuces up?"

Now it's _my _turn to shake with silent laughter. "See, this is why I deliberately kept this music from you."

"I'm _so_ confused, Elena."

He shakes his head, and the wrinkle on his brow is so cute that I settle for patting his arm instead of smoothing it out. "It's No-Show Karaoke, Damon. It's meant to be confusing."

He sighs and takes a large swig of bourbon as Matt raps his way through the rest of the song. He receives a standing ovation from our table when the song ends, to which he responds by shooting us a double-dose of his middle fingers.

"You better hope they don't choose my song for you, Elena," he mutters as he slides into the booth. "Revenge is a dish best served with Justin Bieber."

I gasp. "Take it back, Matthew Donovan." I don't trust the smug look on his face, especially when he doesn't say anything.

Damon puts his hand on my arm. "Since when do _you_ sing?"

"Since always."

He frowns. "You don't at the regular shows. Everyone else in the band takes turns with the lead and harmony but you."

"It's a tragedy, Damon," Caroline says. "Elena's got a better voice than all of us combined and she refuses to sing at Donovan's because she claims that she's 'shy'."

He snorts. "You? Shy? Bullshit. You're singing tonight, aren't you?"

"That's because tonight doesn't count!" I exclaim. "I'm shy when it counts."

"I can't tell you how many times I've heard Elena sing something and sound as good as if not better than the original recording," Caroline continues, shooting me a playful glare which I promptly return. "Donovan's Band can't play anything by Amy Winehouse, Etta James, or Nina Simone because I suck at their songs and Elena won't sing them."

"If I knew who any of those artists are, I'd tell Elena off for being a bad team player," Damon says. I turn my playful glare to him, and he gives my arm – which his hand has rested on this entire conversation – a gentle squeeze. Caroline opens her mouth to respond, but at that moment she gets called to sing System of a Down's 'Chop Suey'. Bonnie gives her a sarcastic thumbs up as she trudges to the stage, leaving Damon and I in the conversation by ourselves.

"I'm beginning to wonder what else you haven't told me about yourself, Elena Gilbert," he tuts at me. "You like pop music _and _you sing? That's a lot for me to handle." The pad of his thumb barely skims back and forth across my forearm. It feels like sparklers are spitting in my blood.

"You've proven yourself to be pretty resilient this semester," I say, trying to keep the tremor from my voice. "I think you'll come to terms with this information sooner or later."

"Later. Definitely later." He laughs at my pout as he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close to him. I'm all too aware of the way he leaves it casually draped across my shoulders. "I've got to admit, Caroline's got me really intrigued about the sound of your voice."

"It sounds like my talking voice but with more range," I quip.

"Ah, but that doesn't match the description of a girl who Caroline insists can out-sing several of the jazz greats. Yes, contrary to what I just told Caroline, I know who all of those people are," he says at my look of surprise. "I've paid attention to those CDs you gave me."

I smile, tickled silly that Damon's actually taking his music "lessons" to heart. "Well, maybe you should play some of their music to figure out what my voice sounds like."

"Or," he says, leaning close to my ear, "you could give me a private performance."

My eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets at all of the images _that_ sentence produced in my mind. Somehow I doubt that the performance he has in mind is the same one that I'd like to give him. Oh God, I am _so_ turned on at the thought of _that_ performance.

"Forget it," I say, painting an amused look on my face as I lean out of his grasp. "I only give private performances in my shower."

He winks at me. "Good to know."

Did he just imply…?

Yes…yes, he did.

As the night goes on, our booth laughs louder than any other in the bar because we're having so much fun. We're all feeling a nice buzz from our drinks that makes everything feel amazing, and we laugh and sing and clap along to our favorite No-Show songs. Damon's never heard any of them before, but he claps and nods his head along with the rest of us. He'll sometimes lean over to me and clarify if whoever's performing actually sang what he thought he heard, and more often than not I have to tell him that yes, Ke$ha does sing that she brushes her teeth with a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey and yes, Katy Perry is telling an aliens to infect her with their poison before Kanye disrobes you and probes you. He mimes hitting his head on the table, and I push his glass of bourbon towards him which he gladly takes a large drink from, and we laugh and listen and laugh some more. Bonnie nails her rendition of Salt 'n Pepa's 'Push It', and a few songs after that Caroline and Tyler get called to sing Thompson Square's 'Are You Gonna Kiss Me Or Not?'. As I watch the two of them perform together I take a break from focusing on the lyrics of the song and instead just melt into how lucky I am to have such an amazing Friday night with five of my favorite people in the world.

"Hey." Damon leans his head on my shoulder. "What are you smiling at, pretty girl?"

I didn't even know I was smiling, but now that I think about it, I realize that I've been smiling all night. "I'm just really happy, Damon."

"Yeah?" He sits back up and searches my eyes with something like hope in his. I nod.

"Yeah."

He exhales what seems like a sigh of relief, and I think about questioning it but I don't when he gives my hand that's under the table a small squeeze because the answer to the question that's plagued me since Thanksgiving just seems so clear right now.

"Hey Damon?"

His fingers brush over my own. "Yes?"

The smile stays on my face. "I want to be your TA next semester."

At first he doesn't say anything, just searches my expression again. "Really?"

"Nothing would make me happier." I mean it. Right now, here in this moment, I know that I want to spend as much time with Damon as possible, whatever the consequences to my heart.

He looks at me for a beat longer. I see the click of realization in his eyes, and the resulting grin that appears on his face is bright enough to power a third-world country. His arms engulf me in a huge hug that I'm all too happy to lean into.

"It feels like Christmas came a month early," he admits. I lean into his embrace, perfectly content to just be held by him, when I suddenly feel the brief press of his lips against my forehead. The lingering feel of them on me burns so much, but it's a good kind of burn, the kind of burn that I want to feel over and over again.

Unfortunately, that bubble of perfect bliss pops when Caroline and Tyler finish their duet and walk back to our table. As they slide into the booth, a single person starts to slow-clap. When the six of us turn in the direction of the sound, we see Klaus and Kol walking towards us.

"Fancy seeing you in a place like this," Klaus says, gradually ceasing his claps. Our entire table tenses, but none more than Caroline and Tyler. His entire body has gone rigid, and the expression on her face is that of petrified anger.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses. Klaus's eyebrows raise.

"You invited me, love. Shall I show you the text messages we exchanged yesterday as a reminder?"

Tyler stiffens even further as Caroline's mouth drops open. "Telling you what my plans are is _not_ the same thing as an invitation to join me!"

"So get lost," Tyler adds, looking all the more like a ticking time bomb. Klaus smirks.

"I'm sorry Tyler, but I just can't do that. You see, I came here under the impression that your pretty little Caroline wanted to sing another song with me and well, I had so much fun the first time that I'd be devastated if I couldn't do it again."

Tyler narrows his eyes. "What do you mean, the first time?" He whirls to face Caroline. The color in her face is completely gone. "What the hell is he talking about, Caroline?"

"Tyler, I wanted to tell you—"

"Well, you'd better tell me now."

Our table silences. Caroline looks over at me with panic in her eyes. I wince as the current karaoke singer breaks into a rendition of Shaggy's 'Wasn't Me'. I give her a slight nod of my head and watch her take a deep breath.

"Klaus and I performed an entire set at the Blue Key on Monday night."

Tyler stares at her, opening his mouth to speak several times but closing it again. I can tell from his expression that he's pissed, really pissed, but the way his shoulders sag show that he's just as devastated as he is angry. He stands up and storms to the front door, muttering "this is bullshit" as he goes. Caroline immediately runs after him, leaving the rest of us to sit awkwardly at the table with each other.

Kol laughs. "Secrets, secrets," he says, attempting to sit next to Bonnie. She glares at him.

"If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to rip out your tongue and choke you with it."

He grins. "Feisty. I've always liked you, Bennett."

As the two of them bicker back and forth, I motion to Damon to let me out of the booth. "I'm going to see if I can smooth things over."

Worry fills his eyes. "Want me to go with you?"

I shake my head. "I think we should give them some alone time to hash things out, though I'll let you or Matt know if I need reinforcements."

He nods. I slide out of the booth. As I pass Klaus, who's still standing at the head of the table, I can't help but lay into him. "You know, Caroline will never spend time with you if you keep throwing her under your bus."

His jaw clenches. "I wasn't—"

"My guess is that you came here tonight with the sole purpose of creating a rift in Caroline and Tyler's relationship. You think that if she and Tyler break up, she'll run to you for comfort." I lean in closer, returning his glare with one of my own. "Caroline's too smart to not see this little stunt for what it is. Do you really think she'll forgive you for adding more trouble to her life?"

I straighten and brush past him. "Don't play games to win hearts, Klaus." On that note, I rush out to the front entryway and stay out of sight as I listen to Tyler yell at Caroline.

"…so you've been sneaking around with him behind my back for a month now?"

"I was trying to find a way to tell you, but I—"

"—but what, Caroline? You didn't want your boyfriend to know that you've been cheating on him?"

"I haven't cheated on you! I would never cheat on you!"

"I'm sorry if I just find that a little hard to believe right now, Caroline. I mean, how would you feel if Rebekah came up to you and completely blindsided you with the information that she and I'd been texting and hanging out for a month without your knowledge?"

Silence. I peer around the corner and see Caroline staring at the ground as Tyler crosses his arms and looks anywhere but at her. When his gaze turns to my direction, I hide behind the wall.

Caroline's voice is small. "Have you?"

Tyler huffs. "Have we what?"

"Have you and Rebekah hung out without me knowing?"

Tyler hesitates. "Not gonna lie, right now I really wish we had so I could throw it in your face and make you feel as shitty as I do right now…but no, I still hate Rebekah Mikaelson as much as I thought you hated her brother ten minutes ago."

Caroline sniffles. "I feel pretty shitty right now."

"Good. You should."

They quiet again, and I exhale a brief sigh of relief. Caroline and Tyler's fights can get really nasty if neither one of them is willing to back down. Maybe Tyler's subduing his anger because they're in a public place, or maybe it helps that Caroline feels as guilty as she does about this situation. Either way, this is one of their lower-decibel skirmishes.

Caroline speaks again. "What can I do to fix this?"

"I don't know." Tyler pauses. "Tell me exactly what you want. No lies, no disguising the truth to spare my feelings."

Caroline takes a deep breath. "I want to be with you…but I also want to try to be friends with Klaus."

Tyler's resulting laugh is terse. "You really want to have your cake and eat it too."

"Hey, you told me to be honest. That's what I honestly want."

"I don't like it."

"And I don't like my boyfriend trying to tell me who I should and shouldn't be friends with."

"I don't want to be that guy, either!" I peer around the corner and watch him pace across the floor. "I don't want to be one of those controlling dick boyfriends who orders their girlfriends around and doesn't let them have a life outside of the relationship! I like that you have interests outside of me. I like that you're into journalism and yoga and all of those folk artists from the 1970s that I can't stand but pretend to like because I'm into you."

Tyler stops walking and leans onto the closest wall for support. "I get it, you know? I get where he's coming from, trying to fuck with us. I mean, look at you. You're amazing. You always know how to calm me down when I'm upset about something. When you walk into a room, I feel like I could take on the world. So yeah, I get why he wants to date you."

"But I don't want to date him," Caroline says, slowly crossing the room to stand closer to him. Tyler shrugs.

"You say that now, and you probably mean it. But what happens when you start to spend more time with him? Will you still feel that way?" He takes a deep breath. "Look, I know that there's…something between the two of you. But if I say that I'm okay with the two of you spending time together, that'd be like me admitting that I can't make you happy anymore. That'd be like me stepping aside and giving Klaus his opportunity to make you happy in the ways I no longer can, and that's…well, that option sucks."

"Oh, Tyler." Caroline goes to embrace him, but he sidesteps her. I ache at the hurt that appears in her eyes at his rejection.

"I'm sorry, but I think I need to be by myself for a little bit."

Her lower lip quivers. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"What? No." He places his hand on the underside of her chin and gently lifts it to face him. "You're stuck with me until you tell me to leave, Caroline Forbes. There's just a lot running through my head right now, and I need some time alone to figure everything out."

She nods and sniffles again. "Do you want me to stay at Elena's tonight?"

He shakes his head. "I'll see you at home when you're done here, okay?"

Tears slowly start trickling down her cheeks. "I love you, Tyler."

He kisses her forehead, and I think about how different this forehead kiss is from the one that Damon gave me just moments ago. "Love you too, Care." He grabs his coat from the coat check and walks out to the parking lot as Caroline stands there and watches him leave.

As soon as Tyler can't see us, I sneak over to Caroline. She turns to me with a wet face, her blue eyes stained red. "Elena," she whispers, and I hear the heartbreak in her voice. She throws herself into my arms and sobs on my shoulder. I smooth her hair and sway us back and forth.

Minutes later, she's calmed down enough. I wipe her tears with my shirt sleeve. "Come on, let's go back inside," I coax, linking her fingers through mine before leading her back to the table. I'm grateful to see that Klaus and Kol are no longer there. My relief is short-lived when I see Matt, Bonnie, and Damon in the midst of what looks like a serious conversation. I clear my throat as we approach the booth. Everyone snaps to attention.

"What'd we miss?" I ask, letting Caroline slide in first. Bonnie brushes us off with a wave of her hand.

"A lot of drunk sorority girls singing songs by boy bands. Nothing special."

"Someone signed me up to sing '(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman'," Matt groans. Caroline smiles but doesn't say anything, so I laugh for the both of us. I turn to Damon.

"How was it?"

"Horrifying," he deadpans. "And oddly arousing."

"I have that effect on people," Matt boasts. My eyes widen when he gives Damon a fist bump in front of my face. Damon and Matt getting along? Did the universe implode while I spied on Caroline and Tyler?

Caroline follows Bonnie and Matt up to the bar, leaving Damon and I at the table by ourselves. "Where's Tyler?"

I sigh. "He drove home. Said he wanted to be by himself to think about everything."

"That's tough."

"Yeah, I think they're both pretty torn up about it."

"They'll work it out, though. Tyler's crazy about Caroline. He talks about her so much during our training sessions, I sometimes think that I know her as well as I do you."

"Oh yeah?" Time to put him to the test. "What's Caroline's favorite ice cream flavor?"

"Blueberry Rosewater, and yours is Salted Caramel."

I brush him off, though I'm secretly pleased he knows the answer. "Okay, that was an easy one. What did Caroline want to be when she grew up?"

"Let's see...I think a mailwoman? You, on the other hand, wanted to be a painter, mystery writer, librarian, Indiana Jones, astronaut, professional soccer player, and a film composer before you decided on your current choice of creative writing professor."

Okay, the fact that Damon knows this about me is ridiculously impressive. "And here I thought you were tuning me out when I talked about growing up in Mystic Falls."

"I thought about it, but if I've learned anything these past two months it's that I'm better off when I listen to you."

"And don't you forget it," I tease, humbled by his admission. He winks at me, straightening back in his seat as the others return from the bar.

The rest of the night goes by smoothly, though there's definitely a cloud in the air from Caroline and Tyler's fallout. The five of us who remain occasionally chit-chat, but for the most part we just listen to people screech their way through cheesy pop songs. I think about everything that's happened here. It's hard to believe that what started as a night of mindless, bonding fun evolved into the night that Caroline's issues with Tyler and Klaus came to a head. I also can't believe that the decision to be Damon's TA next semester came to me so clearly. I don't regret it. I hope I never do. I know that it's definitely going to be tough to continue to spend time with him in such a close proximity. Even though I know that my heart's going to receive a major workout next semester, I'm confident that it'll be worth it. Besides, something I've realized while listening to Caroline's troubles is that at the core of everything, Damon and I are friends. We've taken the time to build a really special relationship. I think it would take something major to destroy that connection, and I can't foresee either of us doing anything to ruin what we have. We might be playing it cool right now for obvious reasons, but doing so has allowed us to cultivate our friendship all the more.

Karaoke Maestro Jens's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Our last performer for the night will be Elena Gilbert singing Taylor Swift's 'You Belong With Me'. Let's give it up for her!"

Oh, shit.

My eyes find Caroline's and narrow. She gives me a sheepish smile, glancing at Damon before looking back at me. I am going to _kill_ her. All of those thoughts I just had about playing it cool? Yeah, Taylor's lyrics applied to my situation are _anything_ but playing it cool.

I feel my face flush as I slowly make my way up to the stage. I tentatively take the microphone from KM Jens and shift my weight from one foot to the other as I wait for the music to start. I'm nervous when it does, but you know what? Fuck it. Let's see what happens.

_You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset  
>She's going off about something that you said<br>'Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do_

_I'm in the room, it's a typical Tuesday night  
>I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like<br>She'll never know your story like I do_

I can't help but seek out Damon during the brief musical interlude, knowing that the next lyrics are about to be dangerously applicable to our situation.

_She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts  
>She's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers<br>Dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find  
>That what you're looking for has been here the whole time<em>

_If you could see that I'm the one who understands you  
>Been here all along, so why can't you see?<br>You belong with me  
>You belong with me<em>

He's paying attention. Oh yes, with the way he's looking at me as if I'm the answer to all of his prayers, Damon is _definitely_ paying attention. His focus – and all of the beer I've had tonight – makes me bold.

_Walking the street with you and your worn out jeans  
>I can't help thinking this is how it ought to be<br>Laughing on a park bench, thinking to myself  
>Hey, isn't this easy?<em>

_And you've got a smile that could light up this whole town  
>I haven't seen it in a while since she brought you down<br>You say you're fine, I know you better than that  
>Hey, what you doing with a girl like that?<em>

I look down at my own jeans and Converse as I sing the next lines and compare them to Dr. Pierce's collection of designer stilettos.

_She wears high heels, I wear sneakers  
>She's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers<br>Dreaming 'bout the day when you wake up and find  
>That what you're looking for has been here the whole time<em>

I bounce around and belt out the chorus, fueled by the audience's cheers and Damon's intense gaze and how much damn conviction I have in a Taylor Swift song of all things, and by the time I get to the bridge, I'm so invested in this message I'm sending to the world – and to him.

_Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night  
>I'm the one who makes you laugh even though you're 'bout to cry<br>I know your favorite song and you tell me about your dreams  
>Think I know where you belong, think you know it's with me<em>

I pour my heart into singing the rest of the song, and on the last line, I look back to our table and lock eyes with Damon as I sing that he belongs with me, because in this booze-driven moment, I'm one-hundred percent sure that Damon would be much better off with me than he is with Dr. Pierce. That bitch needs to go. I'll fly to Eastern Europe and hunt her down myself if that's what it takes to make this break-up happen.

I walk back to my seat to the sounds of audience cheers. Our table gives me a standing ovation, Damon included. As Caroline and Bonnie tell me how great I was, he just stands there, smiling at me with a dazed expression. I wonder if he got conked on the head by a rogue bourbon tumbler – or by Bonnie's elbow.

As everyone stands up to leave, I'm finally face to face with him. The bravery I felt onstage flees, leaving me feeling like a scared little girl. "So…that's what I sound like when I sing," I say, breaking the quiet between us. He grins.

"Better than Amy, Etta, and Nina combined."

I blush. "I wouldn't go that far."

"I would." He slips his arms through the sleeves of his leather jacket. "Hey, I've got to make a quick phone call out front. Come get me when you're all ready to go?"

"Yeah, no problem."

I watch him walk away and sigh to myself as I do. Good Lord, that is one fine-looking ass. I think that's the beer talking. And maybe the aftermath of my performance high. But oh man, Damon has one fine-looking ass.

As Bonnie and Matt settle our bills at the bar, I head out to the front to find Damon. He's talking on his phone in the same place that Caroline and Tyler went to hash things out. I hide behind the same corner I did before and listen.

"…you can't ignore me forever, Katherine. We're going to talk whether you like it or not. If you continue to act like a child and run away every time something serious needs to be said, then you're going to leave me no choice but to go to the U of A Academic Dean and have him schedule a meeting with the two of us so I can get in the same room as you. I'm not going to endure your games anymore."

Holy shit.

This is big. I mean, this is a really. Big. Deal. The fact that Damon's making this phone call right after my song? Yeah, I don't think that "holy shit" even begins to cover the plethora of emotions I'm feeling right now.

If I'd had known that a cheesy song serenade was all it took to motivate Damon to stand up for himself and dump the bitch, I would have sang to him a _long_ time ago.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to all for reading and reviewing the last chapter! Although I'm taking time off from replying to reviews in order to write faster, please know that I appreciate everyone who takes the time to drop me a line. Your enthusiasm for this story is inspirational!<strong>

**Several people have expressed concern over how much of BIYE remains to be told. Without revealing anything major in the plot, here's some food for thought: this chapter takes place on November 30****th****, 2012. BIYE's last chapter will occur on December 24****th****, 2012 with the possibility of an epilogue occurring several months from then. So yes, there's less than a month of story to tell, but a lot can happen in a month when holiday magic is involved... ;)**

**Happy Monday (and congrats on your victory, Ravens Nation)!**


	42. Chapter 42

Caroline texts me an hour before Donovan's Band is supposed to perform to inform me that she and Tyler are skipping tonight's performance.

"Apparently they 'aren't ready to be on stage together' and they 'need space from the rest of the world tonight'," I quote before slipping my phone into my pocket.

Matt shrugs as he fills a pint glass with draft beer and hands it to a customer. "After their blow up at No-Show Karaoke last night, it's probably a good thing that they're taking some time for themselves."

Bonnie cracks her knuckles from the bar stool next to me. "I'm going to beat Klaus and Kol to a pulp if they show their ugly-ass faces around here anytime soon."

I chuckle. She'll make good on her threat. "Easy, Bon. We're already short a singer and a guitarist. We don't need to lose our drummer because of assault charges."

"Bitch, please. If you and the others visit me in the clink, we can play Johnny Cash's _At Folsom Prison_ album! We'll secure our place in Atlanta badassery for life!"

"Yeah, right alongside T.I. and Nene Leakes," Matt mutters. "I've _always_ wanted to be associated with those two 'badasses'."

"You better watch yourself, country boy—"

"Guys! The show?" I interrupt Bonnie and Matt before they become too involved in their squabble. "It'll be tough to perform our usual stuff without Caroline and Tyler. Want to stick to jazz trio standards tonight?"

Matt and Bonnie glance at each other before concurrently nodding.

"Works for me, Gilbert."

"Yeah, I was hoping for a low-key night," Matt adds. "Bonnie and I'll follow your lead and take vocals, unless you're jonesing to sing something other than Taylor Swift."

I wince as I think about last night's performance of 'You Belong With Me'. I've thought about it all day. I still smile when I think of Damon's positive response to my song, but then I force myself to admit how inappropriate my gesture was. Everything about the way Damon and I acted towards each other last night was inappropriate. Even if he does break up with Dr. Pierce – which, dear God, I hope he does – he's still my professor and I'm still his student, and we're still flirting with disaster. I mean, he kissed my forehead last night! I serenaded him with a goddamn Taylor Swift song to imply that he belongs with me! Someone from school could have been at Karaoke Melody last night, saw our affectionate actions, and reported us to the Academic Dean for violating U of A policy. It's so easy to get lost in the exciting rushes I feel whenever I'm around Damon, but now that I've agreed to be his TA, I _really_ need to keep my cool.

"I think I'll pass on singing tonight," I reply to Matt. "Besides, Caroline would have my head on a platter if I made my Donovan's debut without her."

Matt nods as Bonnie mimes karate chopping off my head. I pretend to be headless before taking a swig from my bottle of SweetWater Festive Ale. It's December 1st – holiday beers are in stock!

I hop down from my bar stool. "Matt, I'm going to invade your office and scratch out a tentative set list. You coming, Bonnie?"

She shakes her head. "I trust you, Gilbert. Toss in some songs with opportunities for killer drum solos and I'll be happy as a motherfucking clam."

"Noted." I grab my bottle of beer, walk down the side hallway, and use my key to let myself into Matt's office.

Thirty minutes later, I'm trying to decide the order of our set when a knock sounds on the door.

"Come in!" I expect it to be Matt or Bonnie, so I keep my eyes focused on the paper beneath my fingertips. "Should we play 'Take the 'A' Train' before or after 'The Girl from Ipanema'?"

A voice that is neither Matt's nor Bonnie's answers me. "Before. Definitely before."

I snap my head up to see Damon grinning at me, and I'm instantly flooded with a rush of all the thrilling, confusing feelings I felt around him last night. I order myself to stay calm and keep my butt planted in Matt's desk chair instead of leaping up to hug him like I want.

"Before, huh?" I write the two songs in that order on the sheet of paper. "Consider it done."

He crosses the small room and sits in the chair in front of Matt's desk. "Look out, TA. At the rate I'm learning about music, it won't be long before I'm planning all of your shows."

I wonder if other students feel this giddy when their professors call them their Teaching Assistants. "I don't know, Damon. You'd have to fight Caroline for control over these gigs. She's pretty picky when it comes to our set lists."

"Funny, I seem to remember you saying the same thing about her and No-Show Karaoke." He settles back into the chair. "Caroline may be picky, but I'm just as persuasive. Speaking of Blondie, where is she tonight? I didn't see her when Ric, Meredith, and I came in."

"I think she and Tyler are still recovering from last night's excitement, hence why I'm making a new set list for our remaining group of three."

"Gotcha. What's on the musical menu for tonight?" Damon moves to my side of the desk and invades my space as he peruses the song list. "Let's see what we've got here: 'Fascinating Rhythm'…'Pennies from Heaven'…'Softly, As In a Morning Sunrise'. Looks like you're going old school on us tonight."

"When your band is reduced to a drummer, bassist, and piano player, it makes sense to go the old-school jazz route," I explain.

A mischievous smile curves on Damon's face. "Jazz, you say? As in, Ella Fitzgerald and Nina Simone jazz?"

"I'm not singing tonight, Damon. Bonnie and Matt are sharing the vocals."

His smile falls. "But I want to hear you sing a song that you'll actually admit you like."

"Not going to happen." I feel the need to clarify when he pouts. "I'm shy when it counts, remember? Jazz is one of my favorite genres, so tonight definitely counts. I'm nervous enough about leading our trio and doing these songs justice on the piano – definitely not going to add singing to my responsibilities for the night."

Damon frowns. "What if I told everyone to strip down to their underwear? That technique's supposed to make performers feel less nervous, right?"

I choke on my laughter. "It wouldn't help me concentrate! Besides, have you seen some of Matt's customers? There are definitely people here tonight who I have no desire to see in their tighty-whiteys."

"Ric, for one," Damon supplies. I make a face, though now I'm thinking about Damon in tighty-whiteys…or boxer briefs…or nothing at all. In fact, I'm ninety-nine percent positive that the mental image I have of Damon's bare lower half is far inferior to the reality of his naked body.

Excuse me while I go bleach these mouth-wateringly inappropriate thoughts from my brain.

"Well, thank goodness the U of A handbook forbids me to see _any_ professor in their tighty-whiteys." I can't decide whether I want to kick or congratulate myself for keeping this conversation in the PG range. "If I'm going to get expelled from school, I'd prefer for the reason to be something more badass than seeing Alaric in his underwear."

"Gross, now all I can see is Ric strutting around his apartment in his undies." Damon grimaces. "Well, if you ever decide to do something that's badass enough to get you expelled from school, give me a heads up."

"Why, so you can stop me?"

"No, so I can take pictures for posterity's sake."

I laugh. "And give you the opportunity to blackmail me when I get out of jail? I don't think so, Damon Salvatore. I know your schemes."

"And don't you forget them. Oh, I have something for you." He grins at me as he reaches inside his coat pocket, removes a stuffed envelope, and hands it to me. "Your contract, TA. A legal document that binds you to me as my academic wench for an entire semester."

"Is 'Academic Wench' the politically correct term for TAs these days?" I remove the contract from the envelope and smooth its creases.

"I think the original term was History Mistress, but for some reason people didn't respond well to it."

When I read the clause that reiterates U of A's policy about the prohibition of student-faculty relationships, I pause. It hits me that this is it. This is when I officially agree to keep my hands away from Damon Salvatore until I graduate in May with my MFA degree. Can I do it? My head says yes, keep your damn dirty paws off this man so you don't risk being expelled from school and ending your career with a tarnished record before it begins. My heart, on the other hand…well, it's a bit more conflicted.

Damon clears his throat and snaps me out of my mental ramblings. "Is everything okay? Did they actually write Academic Wench as your title?"

"What? Oh, no. Not yet, anyway." I read the rest of the contract and sign my name with a flourish on the dotted line above Damon's refined signature. I refold the papers, put them back into the envelope, and hand it to Damon. "Here you go, Fearless Leader."

"Fearless Leader and The Academic Wench," Damon muses. "You should write a comic book about our adventures."

I roll my eyes. "Yes, because there's _so_ many adventures to be had in academia," I retort.

"Um, hello? What about adventures of the mind! The devilishly handsome Fearless Leader and his trusty sidekick The Academic Wench would zip around the country in his Camaro and empower young minds with knowledge! Or something like that," he amends.

I cross my arms and give him the evil eye. "Why is Fearless Leader described as devilishly handsome while The Academic Wench is only trusty? And what's the deal with the Wench being a sidekick? She clearly runs the show."

Damon throws his hands into the air. "Doubtful, Elena. And I'm an ideas man. You're the one who pulls everything together!"

I give an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, I'll storyboard some scenes while sitting in your class next semester. At least that way I won't have to listen to boring old Professor Salvatore yammer on for a ninety minute seminar."

"Boring old Professor Salvatore?" Damon repeats. He crosses his arms and playfully glares at me. "I am _not_ a boring teacher."

I pretend to focus on the forgotten set list. "We'll see, Fearless Leader."

"Come on, Elena." He repeatedly nudges my arm and makes it impossible for me to write the remainder of tonight's songs. "Admit that your Fearless Leader is a fantastic teacher."

I try to maneuver around him. "No."

"Admit it."

"Absolutely not."

He lowers his hands to my sides and tickles me. "I'll let you go if say that I'm irresistible in the classroom and that my teaching skills are an impeccable sight to behold."

"And give you the upper hand?" My body flinches as I try to move away from his roaming hands. "Never!"

Damon continues to tickle me as I flinch and laugh in my seat. I eventually wriggle my way out of Matt's chair in attempt to avoid his prodding fingers, but Damon moves with me as we dance an awkward tickle-tango around the room. Damon's eyes shine with laughter, and I'm squealing like a little girl as his fingers jab my rib cage. I crouch over to escape him, but his arms wrap around me and hold me to his chest. We laugh so hard that we collapse on the hardwood floor.

As our laughs subside to giggles, a throat clears behind us. We freeze as if someone poured a bucket of ice water over us. I'm still engulfed in Damon's arms. I nervously glance over to the door and see Alaric standing above us. His arms are crossed, and the expression on his face reads somewhere between shock and disappointment. My face flushes as Damon and I scramble out of each other's arms and to our feet.

"Elena, Matt and Bonnie sent me in here to grab – I mean, get – you. They're setting up on stage." Alaric's stammering makes me blush even more. I'm so embarrassed that he caught Damon and me in this position, and I'm terrified how he's going to react.

"Thanks for uh, letting me know," I babble. I can't look Alaric in the eyes as I dust myself off and rush towards the door. When I get to it, I glance back at the two men and feel a wave of panic wash over me when I see Alaric and Damon exchanging glares.

This can't be good.

I rush down the hallway and out to the stage. Bonnie and Matt are moving her drum set towards the front of the stage. They stop when they see me.

"Whoa, girl," Bonnie whistles. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing." I grab the snare drum and align it with the other drum pieces. My face burns with mounting anxiety. Is Alaric going to say anything to Damon about us? Oh God, is he going to turn us into the Academic Dean? I wipe beads of sweat from my brow. I'm so on edge right now that I trip over one of the cords on stage and am only saved by the grace of Matt's quick reflexes.

He sets me on my feet. "You okay, Lena? What happened?"

My heart's hammering so loudly in my chest that all I can do is shake my head. "Alaric saw me and Damon tickling each other in your office."

Matt's eyes widen. "That's not good."

"You think?" I hiss. I rub my temples to stave off my inevitable headache.

Matt grabs my arms and runs his hands up and down them. "Take a deep breath, okay? That's a good girl. Inhale, exhale."

I bite my lower lip. "What am I going to do, Matty? What if Alaric reports us to the Academic Dean? Damon's going to get fired and I'm going to get kicked out of school. Oh God, this can't happen."

"Hold on for a sec, Lena. I know it's tough, but stop freaking out." Matt walks over to my piano bench and motions for me to sit next to him. "Yes, Alaric's a teacher, but he's also your and Damon's friend, and he's a fair one at that. If you tell him what's going on, maybe he can help."

"Yeah, because I really want to tell a professor who I really respect that I have the hots for his friend and colleague," I groan, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Matt snorts. "I mean, he could be cool with it. You never know."

"When I ran out of your office, I thought he and Damon were about to walk ten paces and shoot each other, Wild West style. That's not exactly the sign of a man who's 'cool' with this." A thought crosses my mind, and I look at Matt. "Why are you being so nice to me right now? You tried to get Damon and me to stop spending time together, and I just told you that he and I got caught doing something stupid in your office."

Matt shakes his head as a wry smile appears on his face. "I figured you needed to talk to 'It'll Be Okay'-Matt more than 'What the Fuck are You Doing'-Matt right now."

My laugh is hollow. "You've got that right."

"Forget about this mess until after the show," he orders as he stands to his feet. "Did you ever write a set list?"

I shake my head. "I was distracted."

"Right." He taps one of Bonnie's cymbals on his way to grabbing his bass. "Guess we'll really have to follow your lead."

"I'll try to take it easy on you."

I look and see Alaric and Damon emerge from around the corner. My stomach sinks when I see the grim expressions on both of their faces. Damon makes eye contact with me and offers me a small smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes, and the way that Alaric stares at me with a furrowed brow makes me feel uneasy. I'm scared to learn what they said about me, but I'm terrified to discover how this will impact both my future at U of A as well as my relationships with both men.

I purposefully choose upbeat songs for Bonnie, Matt, and I to play tonight in attempt to counter my inner gloom. The crowd seems to enjoy our renditions of Dave Brubeck's 'Take Five' and George Gershwin's 'A Foggy Day (In London Town)', and they clap when I break into Vince Guaraldi's 'Linus and Lucy', but I'm not catching their enthusiasm. I keep glancing at Meredith, Alaric, and Damon's table for a positive sign, but the men's faces are set in unyielding lines. Poor Meredith tries to engage them in conversation during our transitions between songs, but it looks like they only give her one word answers before withdrawing themselves once again. The palpable strain between the two men makes me tense, and my fingers slip on the keys more than once because I'm paying more attention to them than I am to the music.

I call for a fifteen minute break when we're an hour into the set so I can regroup myself. I want Damon to tell me what he and Alaric said to each other, but his eyes and thumbs are glued to his phone. I decide to pull out my phone and send him a text to test the waters.

_**Are we in trouble?**_

I pretend to organize the papers on top of my piano to distract myself while I'm waiting for his response. It arrives a minute later.

_**Let's just say that Ric's not happy with either one of us at the moment.**_

Shit.

When Damon and I make eye contact seconds later, his subsequent shrug does nothing to calm my nerves. If anything, it makes them worse. Does he not know that pretending to play it cool in a disastrous situation is only going to make things worse? The rigid set of his jaw tells me that he's not as unaffected by Alaric's discovery as he's pretending to be, but he's hurting the both of us by not letting me know how bad this situation really is.

I shift my glance from Damon to Alaric. Unlike Damon, who's gone to great lengths to keep himself expression-free, Alaric's conflicted emotions are written on his face. It's obvious that he's torn up about what to do. There's a map of wrinkles on his forehead, most likely due to the confusion that clouds his eyes. He runs his fingers through his hair, flattens the mussed strands, and then repeats both actions all over again. I feel so guilty for burdening him with this issue. If I can't do anything else tonight, I at least want to apologize to Alaric for forcing him into a morally difficult situation.

Bonnie and Matt return from refilling their drinks and we play jazz music for another hour. I start giving into my urges to play some of the sadder songs. It's impossible to miss the harrowing looks Bonnie sends me when I end the night with Cab Calloway's 'Minnie the Moocher', Norah Jones' 'Cold, Cold Heart', and Frank Sinatra's 'In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning'.

"Jesus, Gilbert," she says as we put the stuff on the stage back where it usually is, "since when were we going for the depressing-as-fuck jazz funeral vibe?"

For the record, it's tough to be a performing musician. We come to terms with our feelings by playing music with our hearts on our sleeves, so we can't always control the images we want to project to our audiences. "Sorry, Bon."

"Teach 1 and Teach 2 looked like someone stole the Emancipation Proclamation," she comments. "For the record, it wasn't me."

I glance at their table. It's empty. "Shit," I mutter. "Bonnie, do you know where they are?"

She stops and scans the room. "I see Lady Teach talking to Donovan at the bar, but no Teach 1 and Teach 2."

I chew my lip as I step to the edge of the stage and look for them. "Shit."

"Maybe even literally." When I turn to Bonnie to explain her comment, she elaborates. "They could be having some quality bonding time together while dropping a deuce in the bathroom. I bet they appear in ten minutes and they don't look as constipated."

I know Bonnie's trying to make me laugh, but her sense of humor's just not ringing true with me today. I don't say anything as I hop off the stage and work my way through the thinning crowd in search of at least one of my professors. I really hope that Alaric hasn't left yet. As terrified as I am to talk to him, I know that I have a better chance of staying on his good side if I explain what he just saw in person instead of through a phone call or email. I'd feel even better if this talk could happen on my home turf of Donovan's. Matt's bar feels like a safe haven to me, even more so because he's not ripping my head off about getting caught by Alaric.

Ten frenzied minutes pass, and even thought I've searched every nook and cranny in this bar – I even had Matt check the bathroom – there's no sign of Damon or Alaric. As I hop back on stage to look for them again with a more birds-eye view, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I yank it out and read Damon's latest message.

_**Great job tonight, TA. I still like rock and roll more than jazz.**_

Well, at least he's alive. I text him back to ask where he is. His response is nearly instantaneous.

_**Ric walked – more like dragged – me out to my car as soon as the show ended and told me to go. Said something about taking a beat from you. I think he's coming back to the bar to tell you to do the same for me.**_

Every expletive I can think of explodes in my mind when I read those last words. Alaric's one of the most laid-back people I know, so the fact that he's taking immediate action to keep Damon and I from talking to each other is freaking me the fuck out. If he's reacting this strongly to tickling, why wouldn't he report us on the spot?

My phone vibrates again.

_**Giving music-based orders to a non-musical person is a surefire way to guarantee that those orders won't be followed ;)**_

Well, knowing that Damon has no intentions of "taking a beat" from me improves my panicked mood ever-so-slightly. Unfortunately, the panic returns full-throttle when Alaric walks back into the bar, catches my eye, and walks over to me.

"Elena, can I talk to you?" His question sounds well-polished, but he looks at the ground as he says it.

I nod despite the fact that I feel like my stomach's been replaced with a bottomless hole. "Do you want to go in Matt's office for some privacy?"

Alaric nervously laughs. "Maybe we should do this somewhere with other people in the room."

Right, because the last time I was in Matt's office with one of my professors, we had a goddamn tickle war that's probably going to get him fired and me expelled. _Nice going, Elena_. "What about there?"

Alaric turns in the direction I'm gesturing and eyes the empty table in the corner of the bar closest to the stage. No one's sitting at the tables in its vicinity, so I think it's the best spot to have this conversation.

He nods. "That's good."

As I lead us there, I feel like I'm walking to the gallows. Alaric might as well carry a henchman's noose as he follows me. We settle in seats across from each other. Even though I'm worried that my heart's going to give out on me with all the adrenaline it's currently pumping through my system, I make sure to speak first.

"I'm so sorry, Alaric." I take a deep breath so I don't blurt my words, and I continue. "My actions with Damon were inappropriate and I'm sorry that I let things between us get so out of hand. I know that I've completely shattered the trust you had in me, and I won't even try to defend myself because I know what I did was wrong. I feel awful for putting you in this position, and even though I really hope that you won't do this, I understand if you feel it's necessary to report what you saw to the Academic Dean."

My voice cracks at the end of my apology. I jerk my head away from Alaric. I feel tears pool in my eyes, and I take deep breaths to keep from crying. I keep thinking how disappointed my parents would be in me if they were still around. Then I think about how disappointed Jeremy and Aunt Jenna _are_ going to be in me when they've found out what I've done. My MFA degree is for me, but I still want to make them proud. I don't even want to think about the looks on their faces when I tell them I got expelled nearly one semester shy of my degree.

"Whoa, Elena, hold on." Alaric sounds confused, and when I look at him he's staring at me with a softened expression. "As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to report to the Academic Dean."

I can't believe my ears. "But you saw…"

The tips of his ears redden. "If anyone asks me, I saw nothing."

I'm so overwhelmed with relief that it takes every ounce of energy in me to keep from leaping across the table and hugging the living daylights out of Alaric. Then again, those similar urges – albeit less platonic with Damon – are what prompted this conversation in the first place, so I settle for the most heartfelt thank you I can muster. Alaric grunts his acceptance. He looks around the bar before leaning over the table towards me.

"Just be careful, Elena." His voice is so quiet that I have to strain my neck to hear him. "There are eyes all over this city, and people love to screw each other over for petty reasons. Don't give anyone the chance to exploit whatever you and Damon have going on. You've both worked your asses off to get to where you are today. Don't blow it."

I let Alaric's words mull in my head. He's right, of course. He's reiterated the same things I've told myself since Day 1 of knowing Damon Salvatore. Alaric's also made me realize that no matter how subtle Damon and I think our actions are, observant people will still notice them, and some of those people might be inclined to spin our actions in a harsh light. We probably shouldn't publicly flaunt our friendship so much.

"Thank you, Alaric." I fold my hands on the table. "You've always looked out for me in the two years we've known each other, and I want you to know how much I appreciate it."

He brushes me off. "Just being a good friend, that's all."

"I'm very fortunate to have good friends like you to keep me straight."

He blushes. "You're not bad yourself. Just think about what I said."

And I do. I spend Sunday thinking about how to simmer down my and Damon's public interactions so we avoid another fiasco like the one in Matt's office. I can't be alone with him in an otherwise empty room, that's for sure. We probably also shouldn't sit directly next to each other in any circumstance so I won't be tempted to "accidentally" lean against him or brush his hand with my own. Come to think of it, the majority of our close calls – barring us falling asleep in his office on Halloween – have all occurred off-campus.

Maybe Damon and I need to stop spending time together outside of an academic setting until I graduate in May.

That option stews in my brain as I hike McKenna's stairs on Monday afternoon to meet with him. It doesn't seem feasible. I mean, six months of only interacting with Damon in the classroom, his office, or at the occasional department event? Six months of excluding him from laser tag or live music nights with my friends? He's already starting to feel like a sixth member of our group. Bonnie and Caroline love ragging on him, and he trains with Tyler multiple times a week. Granted, Matt still doesn't trust him, but I have a feeling that he's starting to come around. If Damon and I stop hanging out, he won't see the rest of Donovan's Band as often as he does now.

These thoughts weigh heavily on my mind as I knock on his office door. No response after ten seconds. I knock again, this time a little louder. Still no response. Where is he? I remove my phone and go to call him, but the door abruptly swings open.

"Whoa, Damon." I take in his unusually unkempt appearance. His clothes are wrinkled and his hair sticks up in a thousand directions. His eyes are bloodshot and are bordered with dark circles. I discreetly inhale and determine that he probably didn't shower last night. "What happened?"

"Sorry I didn't hear you," he grunts, lumbering to his desk chair. "I didn't get a lot of sleep. I think I was dreaming about pink elephants when you knocked."

_I_ didn't get a lot of sleep last night because I was thinking about Alaric's advice. I wonder if Damon's lack of sleep is similar in nature. My stomach clenches, but I ignore it. "You look wrecked...no offense."

"I feel wrecked." He plops into the chair and runs his hands through his hair.

"Do you want to reschedule?" I offer. "You look like you could use some extra zzz's."

He yawns and brushes me off. "Nah, I'll be fine. Let me see what you've got."

We go over my latest batch of revisions, but something's off about Damon. He's not focused on this session. He keeps twiddling his thumbs and tapping on my binder with his pens. When I ask him what he thinks about a specific section of my story, he gives noncommittal answers. When he tries to wrap things up after thirty minutes instead of the usual two hours, my nerves grow. Even though he told me on Saturday that he had no intention of "taking a beat" from me, maybe he's changed his mind since then. He's certainly acting like he's trying to distance himself from me. I want to know what's going on.

"Katherine and I broke up last night."

Oh.

I survey Damon's expression. Even though he dropped this news as casually as he would if he were forecasting a sunny day, he still looks war-weary. His shoulders droop. Frown lines form around his eyes and mouth as he stares at the pen cup on his desk. He breathes slowly, as if he's determined to make each breath count. He looks like he barely made it out of a war – but I see a survivor's resolve in his eyes. It gives me hope that he hasn't regretted his decision.

I choose my words carefully. "I take it by your appearance that it didn't go as smoothly as you wanted?"

"It didn't go smoothly, that's for sure." Damon's laugh is terse. He leans back and exhales, reminding me of a deflated balloon. "Breakups aren't supposed to last nine hours, right?"

"Nine hours?!"

Damon nods. "Longest nine hours of my life. I'm so tired, Elena."

His exhaustion shows on his face. I should leave and let him go home and get some rest, but I really want to know how this breakup went down. "What happened?"

Damon sighs. "When I woke up yesterday, I realized that I couldn't keep waiting around for Katherine to come to me. I had to go to her if I ever wanted this breakup to happen. I knew that she was flying directly back from Bulgaria, so I went to the airport website to look up every flight from Sofia Airport to Hartsfield-Jackson that day. The only one arrived at eight last night, so I drove to the airport and waited for her in the arrivals lounge."

He chuckles and shakes his head. "You should have seen the horror in her expression when she saw me sitting there. It was obvious that she knew why I was at the airport. Katherine's an excellent manipulator because she knows how to read people, and I think anyone could have read my intent on my face. Of course, she tried to pretend like we were the perfect couple. First she tried to kiss me, and when I moved away she tried to force her bags on me. When I wouldn't do that, she tried telling me that she'd take a cab home because she didn't want to inconvenience me, but I assured her that I would most definitely be driving her home."

Consider me riveted. "How did the drive go?"

"As soon as we pulled away from the airport, I told her that our relationship had run its course and I didn't want to be a part of it anymore. You can imagine how well she took that bit of news." Damon rolls his eyes. "She said she was sorry for being gone all the time, promised to make it up to me, invited me to come with her to Prague in two weeks. When that didn't work, she tried a new angle and tried to pin our problems on me. She said that I've resented her successful career since we started dating and that if I'd specialized in an interesting subject, I'd also receive invites to speak all over the world. That led to a side argument on the Civil War's significance, and that circled back to the fact that I'm boring and I don't have a clue how lucky I am to date such a successful woman. She wanted _me_ to apologize for trying to distract her from her responsibilities, because apparently wanting to spend time with your girlfriend is an unwanted interruption. Oh, and apparently she'll give me another chance if I admit that I was wrong. Honestly Elena, I have no clue how I put up with her for the past year and a half."

I was just thinking the same thing. Seriously, is this woman for real? "Why did it take nine hours?"

"Because when we arrived at her apartment, she wouldn't get out of my car!" Damon stands up and starts pacing around the room. "I told her that we were done and that I wanted to go, and she refused to budge. Told me I was making a big mistake and that she was going to stay until I came to my senses. After two more hours of trying to get her to leave my car, I finally decided that if she wasn't going to leave, then I'd just leave her in it. When I turned off the car and got out to find a cab to go home, she followed me. I tried to double back, but she followed me. The only reason she finally left me alone was because I threatened to call the cops on her and have her arrested for harassment. Nine hours, Elena. Nine fucking hours of her trying to keep her claws in me."

"If she's really as amazing as she claims to be, couldn't she con someone else into doing all of her bidding?" I ask. "Why is she so determined to date you?"

"Well, I _am_ a catch." For the first time this afternoon, a genuine grin spreads on Damon's face. It disappears as quickly as it appeared. "I don't know, though. Maybe she liked dating someone in the department because I always covered for her out of some stupid sense of boyfriend obligation. She'll have to sweet talk someone else into teaching her classes when she decides to leave at the last minute, though. I'm done."

Damon speaks those last two words with such conviction that I think he's truly been released from Dr. Pierce's chains. Free is a good look on him. It makes him seem lighter, like he could sprout wings and fly if he wanted to.

I cross my legs under the desk. "Are you happy?"

He thinks for a moment. "For the longest time I tried to convince myself that I was happy. That _she_ made me happy." He leans against his bookshelves and looks out his window. "Experiencing brief snippets of real happiness these past three months always came as a shock to me because I didn't know how to handle them."

He looks back at me. "That day you took me to play laser tag, I remember feeling overwhelmed with euphoria. I hadn't had so much fun in so long; I didn't know how to recognize it. Now that I do, I'm going to try to seek it out more."

"That's great, Damon." I resist the urge to make a history joke about his pursuit of happiness, but there's an ounce of truth to it. Being with Dr. Pierce took away his liberty. Now that he's got it back, there'll be no stopping him.

"Thanks." He crosses the room back to his desk. "Any chance you want to celebrate my newfound singleness with a drink at Donovan's? If Matt'll serve me, that is. I know that I look and smell like a hobo now."

I laugh, though Alaric's words come to the forefront of my mind. _Don't give anyone the chance to exploit whatever you and Damon have going on_. Anyone who watches Damon and I interact can tell that we're close. Anyone who has slightly more than a superficial relationship with him knows that he's dated Dr. Pierce for a while now. What would people think if he and I went to a bar together the day after their marathon breakup? Some people might not think anything of it. Others, well, they might start rumors that link me to the breakup – rumors that might circle back to school.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Damon," I say. "Considering the timing, and all."

He exhales loudly. "Does this have anything to do with what happened on Saturday with Alaric?"

I nod. "I keep thinking how lucky we are that it was Alaric who walked into Matt's office instead of anyone else."

"Explaining that we're two friends who like to tease each other to anyone else would have gotten messy."

We sit in quiet for a minute, both of us presumably lost in our thoughts about that night. Damon eventually clears his throat. "There has to be a way for us to spend time together without risking either one of us getting fired or expelled. Not hanging out with you is inconceivable in the same way that you not getting together with Caroline or Bonnie is not an option."

"I agree." Even though I know that this conversation will result in Damon and me seeing less of each other, I'm actually relieved that he and I are on the same page of thought. "Maybe we shouldn't spend time together off campus so it doesn't look like we're flaunting our friendship."

"Friendship." The word from Damon's lips rings in the air. "Friendship, of course." He sighs. "I've gotten used to going to impromptu concerts with you, Elena. And I wanted to play laser tag with you and your friends before the end of the year so I could see Bonnie make eight-year-old boys cry."

"I _was_ looking forward to a repeat performance of kicking your ass," I concede, "but I suppose your humiliation will have to wait until May."

"Graduation," Damon supplies. "You'll no longer be a student."

"And you'll no longer be my teacher."

"Six months." Damon grimaces, but he shakes his head and surveys me. "We'll still see each other on campus, right? Mondays and Thursdays at least?"

"And probably more next semester since we're teaching a class together," I remind him. "You'll be sick of me by May."

A smile crosses his face. "I sincerely doubt that, Elena."

A blush warms my face as I stand and gather my things. "Well, I guess I'll see you on Thursday."

"Guess so." Damon's voice sounds weary again. He walks me to the door. He makes a motion to hug me, but he backs away at the last minute. "Take care of yourself, Elena."

I'm confused as to why he's acting like it's going to be three years instead of three days before we see each other again. Also, I'm a bit grumpy for not receiving that hug. "You too, Damon. Congratulations on your newfound freedom. I'd say you've definitely earned it."

"Six months until I can enjoy it," he mutters. I look at him to explain, but he merely shakes his head and ushers me out the door. "I'll see you later."

I'm feeling resigned in the McKenna stairwell when my phone chimes. I look at the screen and see that Damon's texted me.

_**Just reserved the laser tag venue for Monday, May 13**__**th**__**. You better believe I'll be training between now and then.**_

I laugh, feeling slightly appeased that he really does believe that we'll still be close then in spite of our newly made public boundaries. My screen lights with another text from him.

_**This is going to be the longest six months of my life.**_

I sigh. You and me both, buddy. I go to respond to him when I receive yet another text.

_**You're worth the wait.**_

And now I'm a walking pile of sappy goo.

Before I venture out of McKenna, I type a quick response.

_**So are you.**_

I've never meant anything more in my life. If this is what it takes to give Damon and I a fighting chance, then so be it.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter is brought to you by the wonderful ElvishGrrl. Jenn, thank you for helping me figure out how to get from Point A to Point B. I would not be happy with this chapter if not for your impeccable suggestion. (Readers, this writer is an expert at DE emotions. If you want to read writing that grips your soul, I cannot recommend her highly enough.)**

**As those of you who volunteered to help me with my project (hopefully) know, I emailed my fan fiction questionnaire this past week. Thanks to all who have already returned it to me! Your responses are so interesting – you can bet I'll be in touch with you to elaborate on some of them. If you want to help but did not receive the questionnaire, let me know and we'll figure something out. **

**The other big news? I signed up for a Twitter account! You can follow me at jazzywritingAmy. I have no clue what or how often I'll tweet (gosh, it sounds so weird to write that word in a non bird-watching context), but I think you'll get some laughs out of my posts if you do choose to follow me.**

**Lastly, thank you so much for your continued reads, reviews, and PMs. Writing BIYE would not be half as fun as it is without your incredible outpouring of support. Hugs and Happy Mondays to you all.**


	43. Chapter 43

I'm utterly _miserable_ for the rest of the week. The task of enforcing physical and emotional distance between Damon and myself, I've learned, is about as enjoyable as removing my fingernails with a set of pliers.

I still see Damon at our biweekly Thursday meeting, but we're much glummer than we were on Monday because we're both making a forced effort to remain professional around each other. Instead of casually chatting with each other on his sofa, he stays behind his desk and I sit in the chair across from him. Our conversation never strays from the pre-set topics of my novel revisions or our plans for next semester's class. Funny thing, it turns out that those two subjects can't sustain a dialogue for very long. A sense of great loss and loneliness pervades his office, and I can't remember feeling separation from someone so acutely since my parents died. Even though Damon and I are in the same room, it still feels like we're speaking to each other across an ocean-wide desk.

Sometimes, during our now more-frequent silences, I look at Damon and see him staring at me as if he wants to tell me something important. He never does, though. He simply shakes his head and gives me a tight-lipped smile and leaves me wondering what he wanted to say. I know what I would say to him if I could. I'd tell him that I want us to stop playing this game of academic chicken with each other and return to acting like friends in public, but I can't. I won't. My head tells me that this is the right thing to do, that it's the only way to ensure that we both make it to the end of the year.

If this is the right thing to do, then why does my heart feel like it's missing its other half?

I feel even worse when I see Damon by himself at Donovan's on Saturday night. The entire band's back together because Caroline and Tyler reached some sort of agreement during the week. What that agreement is, I have no clue because I haven't seen Caroline since everyone went to No-Show Karaoke last Friday. Either way, I'm glad to hand the leadership reins back to her because I really don't want to be here. Every time I look up from my piano, I see Damon watching me from his seat at the bar. He maintains eye contact with me as he tells the stand-in bartender to fill up his bourbon tumbler, finishes his drink in two large gulps, and immediately asks for another refill. He looks as unhappy as I feel.

I stand up to leave as soon as the band finishes playing, but Caroline accosts me and asks me to stay. She wants to talk to me about Tyler. I try to be a good listener, but my eyes continually drift to Damon. Jealousy floods me when I see him talking with Bonnie and Tyler. They actually get to talk with him in public. They get to laugh with him. They don't have to pretend like they're nothing more than mere acquaintances.

I do.

"…Elena!" Caroline's voice trills in my ear. "Elena, I'm trying to tell you something important and you're not paying attention to me!"

I snap my head back to face Caroline. "Sorry, Care. What were you saying?"

"I was saying," she huffs, "that Klaus invited me to go to an art show with him next week. I told Tyler about it, and all he did was shrug so I know he's not happy about it, but he's not going to stop me from going."

My eyes narrow as I watch Damon laugh at something Bonnie says. "That's...great. Just great."

She crosses her arms. "Okay, what's with you? You've been in a pissy mood all week!" She tracks my line of sight to the bar. "Oh my God, is it Damon? Did you guys have a fight?"

"Could you keep it down?" I hiss through clenched teeth.

She lowers her voice to a whisper. "Tell me!"

I motion for her to follow me to the corner of stage where no one can hear us. "Damon and I decided to stop spending time together outside of school until I graduate so we don't have another incident like the one in Matt's office last Saturday."

Her eyes widen. "An incident in Matt's office last Saturday? Involving you and Damon?"

"And Alaric," I mutter.

Caroline makes a sound that sounds like a cross between a cough and a squeak. "Tell me everything. Now."

I enlighten Caroline about the Saturday night events between Damon and I in Matt's office and how Alaric caught us post-tickle war. I tell her how Alaric's advice to me at the end of the night convinced me that Damon and I need to do a better job of hiding our friendship in public if we want to make it to graduation unscathed. "And then he told me that he finally broke up with Dr. Pierce, and it is _killing_ me to not be able to act on it!" I groan as Caroline gasps. "I'm going out of my mind here, Care. It's like forcing myself to not spend time with you or Matt."

"Only a billion times worse because you don't want to jump our bones every time you see us." Caroline's pensive expression morphs into a rascally grin. "Well, you don't want to jump Matt's bones. Don't think I haven't noticed those come-hither looks you've given me lately, missy!"

"You're pretty hot, Care. I can't help it."

She fluffs her hair. "Believe me, I know." She pulls me deeper into the stage corner. "Look, Elena. I know you're trying to do the right thing by backing away from Damon, but have you looked at yourself lately? You look more ragged than my cousin Mary. You know people call her Scary Mary, right?"

"What do my looks have to do with doing the right thing?" I demand, weary of this conversation.

"If not spending time with Damon was really the best thing for both of you, then maybe you wouldn't be trudging around Atlanta like you're extras from _The Walking Dead_." Caroline scans my body and wrinkles her nose in a way that makes me want to take a shower. "I love you dearly, but when you feel guilty about something, you usually overcorrect your perceived mistakes. Staying away from each other is clearly doing you both more harm than good."

"Is it?" I sigh. "Maybe if we stick with it, it'll get easier to not acknowledge him in public."

"Did you ever think about how your perceived friendship with Damon could actually benefit you in the classroom?" she asks. "I've been in a lot of classes with professors and TAs who don't get along, and the students take advantage of them for it by pitting them against each other. If they see that you and Damon look out for each other, maybe they'll be less likely to pull that immature bullshit because they know it won't work."

I think about what she says. She makes a good point. "You don't think they'll try to start rumors about us if they notice that we hang out outside of the classroom?"

"So what if they do? Just don't give anyone any concrete evidence to bust you on," she winks, "if you know what I mean."

Concrete evidence? _Real_ subtle, Caroline. "I know what you mean."

She claps. "Good. Now get down there and fix this situation. All is not right with the universe with you and Damon forcing odds upon yourself like this."

"The odds have always been on us, Care." I sigh and look at the clock on the bar wall. "I think I'm going to head home."

"What? Why?" she protests. "I thought you were going to talk to Damon."

"I will. Well, not now." I massage my temples. "I want to hang out with him, but what happened at the Blue Key and at No-Show Karaoke? Yeah, that can't happen again. If we're going to spend time together, it needs to be PG, and unfortunately, we act the most PG around each other when we're on campus."

"So hang out with him on campus," Caroline suggests. She follows me off the stage and into Matt's office. "There, loophole found."

"Yeah. Maybe." I shrug into my coat. My head tells me that spending more time with Damon on campus would arouse suspicion about us amongst our peers. Then again, it's a surefire location that we'll keep our hands off each other. Well, unless we fall asleep in his office again.

Could we…

_NO. _

Time to get my mind out of that gutter.

"Text me when you're available this week and we'll grab lunch," Caroline says. She closes the office door after us and walks back into the bar area with me.

"Will do." I give her a quick hug. "I'm heading home. Tell the others I'll see them later, okay?" As I refer to the other members of Donovan's Band, I look over at them and happen to make eye contact with Damon. We stare at each other for several moments. The magnetic pull of his eyes continues to captivate me, even if those eyes are saturated in sadness. I give him a small smile and curl my fingers in a wave. He returns the gesture. I remember the way our linked hands felt like interlocking puzzle pieces at the Dr. Dog concert. Thinking about that loss makes me feel so incomplete. I mutter my apologies to everyone as I rush out of Donovan's on the second Saturday in a row.

Caroline's suggestion lingers with me the rest of the weekend. Is there a way for Damon and me to spend more time together on campus without making others suspicious? Is that the loophole to our arrangement that I've been looking for? I feel weak for already wanting to bend our rules to see him, but the guy's one of my best friends. It feels wrong to not spend time with him when I can.

I'm tense during our Monday meeting. We're still acting as reserved towards each other as we did last week, and that formality creates an unbearable tension in the room. As I survey Damon's distressed expression, I feel like someone's replaced the muscles in my entire body with coiled springs that are seconds away from opening. Is he having as tough a time accepting this arrangement as I am, or is the aggravation on his face due to the approach of finals season or, I don't know, a bad bean burrito? A week ago I'd feel comfortable asking him what's wrong. Now? Not so much.

The academic part of our meeting comes to a close. I've almost finished my book revisions, and Damon's asked me to skim through several chapters of a book he wants students to buy next semester. We'd normally spend the next hour swapping stories with each other, but now I pack my binder in my messenger bag and prepare to leave.

"Are you available to meet next Thursday?" Damon asks. His voice is aloof. The way he watches me is anything but detached.

"Yes, I'll send you my revisions by Wednesday evening." I put on my coat and slip the buttons through the holes. He watches me as I do this. The lines of despondence on his face are almost enough to make me call off this whole incognito friendship experiment.

Almost.

"Well, I'll see you then." My voice sounds hollow to my ears.

"Guess so." Damon makes no effort to stand from his chair and walk me to the door. My heart feels like someone's squeezing it harder and harder the closer I get to the door.

I don't look back at Damon as I turn the door handle. "Well, good night."

"Be safe, Elena."

My body wracks with silent sobs as soon as I close the door behind me. It's not so much our physical separation that pains me as it is our emotional one. Just a week ago Damon confessed the intimate details of his breakup with Dr. Pierce to me, and now we can't talk about anything other than school-related subjects? How is that fair? Why would the universe place someone so amazing in my life and arrange our circumstances so we can't spend time with each other?

I'm so caught up in my frustrated emotions as I walk down the stairs that I barely hear the music to 'Swept Away' sound from my phone. Wiping at the errant tears that dot my face, I rummage through my bag to find my cell. I remove it and look at the screen.

_**Incoming call from Damon Salvatore.**_

My fingers shake as I press the Talk button. "Hello?"

"I can't do this anymore, Elena."

My legs tremble as hard as my heart, and I'm so overwhelmed that I have to sit down in the middle of the stairwell. "Can't do what, Damon?" I ask, even though my heart knows the answer and yearns to scream it from the top of Stone Mountain.

"I can't stay away from you in public. I can't pretend that we're not friends." He exhales into the phone. "I know that we're risking a lot if we spend time together in public, but this past week has been one of the worst of my life and I am _not_ going to go through this torture for the next six months."

"It's been hard for me too, Damon," I whisper into the phone. "But what about Alaric? What about—"

"Screw Alaric," he barks. "He told us to be careful, so we'll be careful. We'll only hang out on campus and at Donovan's. Public settings so no one can accuse us of sneaking around. We're going to be colleagues next semester, so we can spin that in our favor."

His voice breaks. "I need my best friend, Elena. Things have happened this past week and...I just need to talk to my best friend about them."

Any reservations I had about going back on our decision evaporate when I hear the vulnerability in Damon's voice. "Hey, it's going to be okay. Whatever happened, it's going to be okay," I soothe. "Do you want me to come back to your office? I'm in the McKenna stairwell."

"I wish," he breathes, making my heart skip a beat. "But no, not my office. Someplace public. Can you meet me in the Student Union Building in an hour?"

I mentally note to cancel Zumba with Caroline tonight. She'll understand. "Of course."

"The Campus Activities Board is showing _A Charlie Brown's Christmas_," he clarifies. "You played that song with the characters in it two weeks ago during your jazz night, right?"

"'Linus and Lucy'." I'm tickled at how much Damon's learned about music in the few short months that I've known him. "It'll be good to see you again. Well, I just saw you, but you know what I mean."

I can practically hear him smiling through the phone. "Yeah, I do. Thank you, Elena."

I expect to be overwhelmed with trepidation when our phones disconnect, a sense that we're making a big mistake by agreeing to watch a movie together tonight in a room full of undergraduate and graduate students. I'm startled when no such feeling overcomes me. Instead, I'm cloaked in the warm feeling that we finally righted a wrong. At the moment, pursuing a romantic relationship with Damon _is_ wrong, but spending platonic time with him? That's something every fiber of my being wants me to do.

I make my way to the SUB an hour later and grab myself and Damon a nondescript booth in the back of the room. We have a good view of the inflatable movie screen, but we're enough out of the way that we can talk and not disturb the other movie-watchers.

Ten, twenty, and thirty minutes pass by. The room starts to fill. I start to grow anxious. I check my phone every thirty seconds to see if Damon texted me but my screen remains blank. Maybe Damon decided to bail. He probably thinks I'm a huge flake. Heck, maybe he even patched things up with She-Who Shall Not Be Named in the week that he and I were at odds with each other.

Twenty minutes before _Charlie Brown_'s scheduled to start, Damon bursts through the doors of a nearly full room. He holds stuffed, grease-stained Sonic bags in his hands. My heart could explode from happiness. I stand up from the booth and wait for his roaming eyes to spot me. When they do, he smiles at me. I breathe a sigh of relief at seeing that smile again.

"I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind," I say as he drops the bags on the table.

"I'm so sorry," he apologizes, sliding across from me in the booth. "I wanted to surprise you and grab us dinner, but there was a huge traffic jam on the highway and it took over an hour to reroute me. I sent you a bunch of texts. Did you not get them?"

I shake my head. "They didn't come through." I can't stop grinning. He went out of his way to buy us dinner!

"This room is such a fucking black hole," he mutters, tossing his coat on the seat. "I know it's cold out, but I remember you like orange cream slushes, so I got you one of those. I hope that's okay."

"It's perfect." Heck, he didn't have to get us anything and it still would have been perfect. He's here. I feel better right now than I have for the past week.

We eat our food in companionable silence, and when the movie starts to play we watch that in comfortable quiet as well. Every now and then I look over at him and find him staring at me. He smiles, and how can I not smile back? He's here.

When the movie ends, we linger in the room until most of the students leave. We throw away our trash and put on our coats, and we walk out of the SUB together.

"I've missed you," he suddenly says.

We stop walking and face each other. My heart's ready to flutter out of my chest.

"I missed you too," I say. "I was miserable this past week."

"Oh, you have no idea, Elena," Damon groans. "First my students decided to act like brats and demand deadline extensions for their final papers – which, with your approval, we are _not_ budging on next semester. Then Katherine's been prancing around the department office with an Art History teacher in her misguided attempts to make me jealous, which is just ridiculous because I'm never going back to that bitch. And on top of that, guess who calls me out of the blue last night? My brother, that's who."

I quickly submerge my pleasure at hearing Damon demean Dr. Pierce to focus on his last predicament. This is huge. I don't think Damon's talked to his brother in over a year. "Stefan called you? What did he want?"

Damon kicks at a pebble on the sidewalk. "Apparently he and Daddy dearest have decided that we should pretend to be a family this Christmas and spend the holidays together."

My brow furrows. "What does that even mean?"

"It means that Father and Stefan are crashing the boarding house for Christmas," he scowls.

We walk in silence as I process this information. It's no secret that Damon has a rocky relationship with his Dad and brother. After all, his mom, the person who brought so much joy and light and love to his young life, died giving birth to Stefan, and once Stefan revealed that he carried his mom's music virtuoso talents, Giuseppe instantly favored him over Damon. It probably didn't help that Damon has his mother's dark hair and light eyes. I wonder if Giuseppe saw his dead wife every time he looked at his oldest son. It's no excuse for shipping him off to boarding school and being a terrible father the rest of the time, and as I glance over at Damon, the stony set of his face reflects those same thoughts, _it's no excuse_.

We walk to the abandoned soccer field and sit on the bleachers. The metal feels cold through my jeans, and I resist the urge to inch closer to Damon and share some body heat. I instead look at the overgrown field.

"That's a lot to process, Damon." I close the top button on my coat. "How do you feel about that news?"

He smirks. "Should I answer your question on a couch?" he quips. The smile slips off his face shortly thereafter and is replaced with a look of utter frustration. "I don't know. Definitely pissed off that they didn't even ask if I'm okay with them barging into my home before they made their decisions. And the fact that they want to be together now? Why now? Why _this_ Christmas? My guess is that Stefan's won another award for being a music douche – no offense – or Dad's dying and wants me to take care of him. Either way, there's no way that Father and Stefan's visit has anything to do with me and family."

"You never know." I try to soothe him. "They could genuinely miss you."

"Miss me?" His laugh is terse. "I've never been missed by anyone, least of all my family."

"I missed you this past week," I correct.

Damon's hard expression softens. "You're right. Forgive me for implying otherwise?"

"Always."

He smiles, but it's quickly followed by a deep frown. "I don't trust this, Elena."

"But you want to," I supply. I see confirmatory light in Damon's eyes. "You've had hope that you'll find a way to connect with your family after all those years of distance. Even if you had a rough time with them, they're still your family. I'd feel the same way if I were in your situation."

Damon sighs. "What are the chances of you being around over the holiday to serve as a buffer between me and my family? You and Stefan can have nightly jam sessions and give me a break from everyone."

"Sorry, but I'm heading back to Mystic Falls on the 24th and probably won't come back until the weekend of January 11th."

"You're ditching me in fourteen days? For three weeks?" Damon pouts.

I nod, already feeling a small sense of loss that will come with our separation.

A determined look crosses Damon's face. "Then we'll just have to spend as much time together as we can before you leave."

My heart leaps at his words, at the fact that he wants to be with me as much as possible before we separate in two weeks. My conscience, which now sounds a lot like Alaric, whispers nagging thoughts into my ear. "We're not just doing this because it's the easy way out, right? Are we going to be okay if we see each other more often?" My voice waivers at the thought of going through last week's torture all over again.

"Elena, look at me." Damon reaches for me and stops inches away from my hand. He instead rests his hand next to mine on the metal bench. Our pinky fingers touch. I feel his heat through my gloved hand. I face him, and his eyes search mine before he speaks.

"Elena, I wasn't okay when I couldn't talk to you last week. I'm _not_ going to be okay if I don't get to be open with you for the next six months. We don't have to flaunt our friendship," he hesitates on the word, "but I don't want us to be forced into hiding."

He leans away from me and nervously searches my expression. "Is…is that what you want?"

My answer is immediate. "Yes."

Damon's smile warms me to my core on this cold December night. "Then we'll find a way to make this work."

* * *

><p>Damon and I decide to limit our time together to public spaces on campus and at Donovan's. We take advantage of our new boundaries. On Tuesday we meet to hear a visiting lecture talk in depth about the role that Maryland played in the Civil War. We grab coffee together at the campus café on Wednesday and spend two hours planning Weeks 4 and 5 of next semester's class. Thursday brings us lunch with Caroline and Tyler, and Damon shows us a flyer he saw in the History department office over our bites of burger and salad.<p>

"1940's Big Bang Swing Dance," Caroline reads from the paper. "Friday, December 10th, 9:00p.m. Live music provided by Fat Joe and The Naughty Swingers. Dress to impress, evening or 1940's attire. This looks like so much fun!"

"And it's being held on campus in the Student Union Building," Damon adds, giving me a significant look. "I'm offering my students extra credit if they make a thirty-minute appearance."

"Oh my God, let's all go!" Caroline tugs on Tyler's shirtsleeve and gives him puppy-dog eyes. "Please, Tyler?"

I don't miss the pleading glance that Tyler sends to Damon. "A themed dance? Do I have to, Care?"

She scowls at him. "Yes."

"You're a tough woman to resist, Caroline Forbes," he sighs. He looks at Damon and me. "Looks like I'm going to this dance."

Caroline squeals and leans across the table to give him a kiss as Damon and I make gagging faces at each other. When she sees what we're doing, she leans back and smacks Damon on the arm. "Don't make fun of us! You're just jealous that you don't have anyone to kiss."

"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he coyly replies and winks at me. My cheeks grow warm at his bold implication.

I decide to leave before this conversation gets too provocative for public ears. "And on _that_ note, I've got to get to class. Caroline, Tyler, I'll come to your apartment tomorrow night to get ready after dinner. Damon, I'll see you in a few hours for our regular meeting." Everyone says goodbye to me, and I leave the quaint diner with Damon's words replaying themselves in my mind.

My cheeks still feel flushed due to Damon's ambiguous statement when I return to his office for our afternoon meeting. I attempt to distract myself by handing him the latest draft of my novel. "It's crazy that I only have one more week to revise this thing before the semester ends," I comment as I settle in the chair in front of his desk.

Damon laughs as he thumbs to the pages I've marked that contain the latest edits. "How does it feel to know that you're almost finished?"

"I don't know," I admit. "Part of me feels excited knowing that the huge weight of this project is going to be lifted from my shoulders. At the same time, I'm also terrified. I mean, I have to submit this to publishers! What if they don't like it? What if I've spent the past two years writing a book that no one wants to publish?"

"Hold on, pretty girl," Damon interrupts. "Let's think about all the crazy you just spouted to me. You're an amazing writer, and when, not if, your book gets published, it's going to be a hit."

"But I haven't heard back from the Halloween contest you made me enter—"

"So what? Doesn't it take you months to hear back from most writing contests?" Damon points at my red binder. "This is great." He points at me. "You are great. Stop worrying. Everything's going to come up Elena. I guarantee it."

He leans back in his desk chair with a bemused expression on his face. "I never thought I'd see a day when _I'd_ have to give _you_ advice. Shouldn't I be the one relying on you to calm me down about the latest crisis in my life? Though I admit, it's nice to know you're not as unflappable as you seem."

"I am not unflappable." I think about all of the times that Damon's seen me cry and all of the times I've gotten upset over him. I think it's safe to say that this man has a knack for getting under my skin. "I think we balance out each other's quirks really well."

"We do make a good team," Damon says. "And speaking of balance, I may have gotten myself in a bit of a jam with this whole dance thing."

"Don't tell me you can't go." I'm pretty sure that I'd be devastated if I didn't get to see Damon dressed in 1940s attired.

Damon shakes his head. "No, I'll definitely be there, but when I agreed to make an appearance, I forgot that I don't know a thing about dancing."

I exhale in understanding. "Right, because avoiding music leads to avoiding dances."

"Don't get me wrong, I know some moves," he proceeds to raise his arms and shake his hips in a way that reminds me of a gyrating hippopotamus, "but I'm not sure the big band can keep up with them."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "Yes, I'm not sure that Fat Joe and The Naughty Swingers play music that's _sophisticated_ enough to accompany what you just demonstrated."

He gives me a dirty look. "I'd like to see you do any better."

"If you insist." I stand up from the chair, move to the center of the room, and execute a perfect Charleston. Sure, it's more at home in the 1920s than the 1940s, but considering that swing dancing evolved from the Charleston, I think it gets my point across.

I stop after several seconds and do a small curtsy. Damon's jaw drops to the floor. "Damn."

"I was a cheerleader in high school," I explain as I return to my seat. "We didn't have anyone to cheer for in the spring, so we transformed into a dance team and learned a bunch of dances from every decade to incorporate into our routines."

A mixture of shock and reverence fills Damon's eyes. "Teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me your moves, Elena," he pleads. "Don't make me look like a fool tomorrow in front of my students."

"Why don't you pull out your moves from earlier?" I mimic his gyrating hippo motions and earn a glare. "I'm sure your students would love to see that."

Damon crosses his arms and scowls at me. "What I said earlier about us being a good team? I take it back."

I briefly consider the notion that giving Damon a private swing dance lesson in his office is probably not the best thing to do given the precarious state of our public relationship, but I relent. What's one dance between perceived friends? "Fine. Play Glenn Miller's 'In the Mood'. It's arguably the most famous big band song ever recorded."

Damon clicks his computer mouse several times before the famous saxophone introductory notes fill the air. I motion to him to stand across from me. "Okay, so swing dancing is built on a combination of triple steps and rock steps. If you forget what you're doing halfway through a routine, you can always regroup with this combination. Mirror me. Triple step," I move to the right, "triple step," I move to the left, "rock step," I step backwards with my right foot and then return to the center. "Let's do this for a while."

Damon tries to mimic my motions and ends up stepping on my Converse more than once. "I'm going to owe you a new pair of shoes by the end of this lesson."

"Or a new pair of feet," I mutter. "Don't worry about that. Just mirror me. Triple step, triple step, rock step. Triple step, triple step, rock step."

It takes Damon two minutes, but he finally gets the hang of the combination. "Okay, now we're going to repeat those steps but we're going to rotate as we do them. I'm going to step to your right for the triple steps, and then on the rock steps we're going to step away from each other."

I take Damon's left hand with my right one and position his right hand on the small of my waist. As I place my left hand on top of his right shoulder, I feel a hum of electricity pass between us. I look up at him and see him staring intently at me. His eyes burn into mine. My entire body feels as if I've been struck by lightning. I'm burning, I'm flying, I'm falling, and it's all because of this man and the way his hands curl around my body as if they're meant to be there.

Damon gulps. "So, rotating steps?"

I lick my dry lips. "Yeah. Rotating steps."

I guide us through the basic swing motions, trying to keep my tone light even though I'm all too affected by the way Damon's touch makes my blood flare. Every one of our steps, from the ones we manage to get right to the ones that result in us crashing to the floor or spinning into the bookshelves, is laced with a primal need that's barely restrained. Every time I have to walk back to the computer to restart the song, I have to grit my teeth and clench my hands and whisper to myself that I will overcome these urges to back Damon into his desk chair, straddle him, and taste his mouth for the next three hours. I'm all too grateful when a knock sounds on his door.

"Damon?"

Dr. Pierce.

Damon and I leap apart from each other. Our faces redden with exertion as we try to compose ourselves as quietly as possible. I'm stuffing my belongings back into my bag when the door creaks open and Dr. Pierce struts inside Damon's office.

She glares at me. "What is _she_ doing here?" I want so badly to return her glare, but I force myself to play the role of the guiltless student.

"Can this wait, Katherine?" Damon's voice is as frosty as her glare. "_Elena_ and I are in the middle of a meeting."

"Damon, you and I should be more important than a meeting with dear Eliza." She stares at her polished nails and flips her hair. I want to rip it out curl by curl.

Damon sighs. "This is a professional environment, Katherine. Whatever you have to say to me should be academically appropriate enough to say in front of Elena."

A coy smile spreads across her face. "But I prefer spending time with you in private so much better."

Damon's lips press together in a straight line. "I thought I made it clear to you that I never want to spend any time with you again, private or otherwise."

_Burn_.

As much as I want to stay and watch Damon's showdown with Dr. Pierce, I realize that I have to play the role of the naïve student who has no investment in their relationship whatsoever. "I should probably go now," I say. I close my bag and grab my coat off Damon's coat rack. "Thanks for your suggestions, Damon. I'll send you those revisions as soon as I can."

"I'll walk you out," he offers. The resulting look I receive from Dr. Pierce is cold enough to turn me into stone. Maybe she's a Gorgon reincarnate and her brown curls are actually dormant snakes. Note to self: never look Dr. Pierce directly in the eyes.

Damon's careful to maintain a two-foot distance from me as we walk to the door. When I turn to say goodbye, he mimes pointing a gun at his chest and pulling the trigger. I crack a small smile.

"I'll text you," he mouths. I nod, curl my fingers goodbye, and head down the hall. Dr. Pierce's screeching queries about his sudden interest in big band jazz sound down the floor. Damon's text follows shortly after.

_**Thanks for the lesson. Can't wait to see you tomorrow.**_

My heart soars, but it's quickly pulled back to Earth when I think about the way Dr. Pierce glared at me. I'm no longer intimidated by her presence in Damon's life, but I have a sinking suspicion that she's going to keep a closer watch on Damon and me from now on.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to everyone for continuing to show BIYE so much support through your reads, reviews, favorites, Tweets, and smoke signals (okay, I assume that one's to come). I'm so fortunate to have enthusiastic readers! <strong>

**If you haven't heard the good news, I finally caved and got a Twitter account! Hit me up at ****jazzywritingAmy**** if you want the occasional dose of my musings.**

**Oh, and thanks to everyone who's already returned my fan fiction questionnaire. Your responses are fascinating and I look forward to talking with you about them after I wrap up BIYE. If you're still working on the questionnaire, didn't receive it, or are new to the story and want to know what the heck I'm talking about, let me know in a review or PM and I'll get back to you ASAP.**

**Happy weekend, all!**


	44. Chapter 44

Caroline's in the shower when I arrive at her and Tyler's apartment on Friday night to get ready for the dance, so I take advantage of this rare one-on-one time with Tyler to ask how he's coping with **Situation: Klaroline**, as Bonnie, Matt, and I are calling it.

"It must be tough for you to deal with," I say from my spot next to him on their living room couch.

He leans forward to cradle his head in his hands. "My girlfriend says she wants to be friends with my mortal enemy – who has a huge hard-on for her – and I have to sit back and let it happen? Yeah, it's been rough."

I try to appease him. "Caroline told me that she really liked it when you didn't argue with her about going to the art show with Klaus."

His eyes narrow. "I went straight to the gym as soon as she left. I knew I'd destroy the apartment if I had to stay there by myself and think about that fucker taking my girlfriend on a date." He laughs, but there's no amusement to it. "I think I destroyed my muscles instead. Didn't get back from the gym until midnight. Caroline was sitting on this couch when I walked in the door."

"She waited up for you?"

"Yeah. Said that if she ever went to another art show, she wanted me to go with her. I don't like art but I'd go to a gallery if that'll make her happy." He exhales and looks at the blank television screen. "I want her to be happy, but does it make me a bad person if I want her to be happier with me than him?"

"Not at all." I relate well to Tyler in this department – after all, I'm pretty sure I've thought the same thing about Damon and Dr. Pierce for the past month and a half. "You're a good man, Tyler. Caroline's crazy about you."

He sighs. "I dig that we do our own things, you know? It's cool that she hangs out with her journalism friends or you and Bonnie without me. There's just something about _him_ that really gets under my skin. I don't trust him at all. There's no way that he has her best interests at heart. I mean, how could he not get that crashing our No-Show night would hurt her as much as it did me? That dick can fuck with me all he wants, but I would never fuck with him if there was a chance that I'd make Caroline cry in the process."

Wow. Before tonight I was on Team Whoever Makes Caroline Happy, but listening to Tyler talk makes me realize just how much he cares about her. He's really acting like the bigger man between himself and Klaus. Anyone with money can buy an entire day's worth of planetarium shows to seduce another man's girl, but there are very few men who can remain calm when their girlfriend spends time with a guy they hate. I'm sure that Klaus can be decent – Caroline wouldn't spend time with him if he was all bad – but Tyler's goodness shines through in the face of extreme adversity.

I offer Tyler a reassuring smile. "I think that things are going to work out in your favor, Tyler."

He gives me a wary look. "Really?"

I nod. "Your attention is solely on Caroline's happiness. His isn't. She's going to notice that difference in your focuses sooner rather than later and realize who cares more about her wellbeing."

Tyler nods. "Thanks, Elena." He opens his mouth to say something else, but we hear Caroline turn off the shower water.

Two minutes later, Caroline steps out of the bathroom with a pink towel wrapped around her midsection. "Elena! Thank God you're here, I rushed home from school today to choose an outfit for tonight and I need you to tell me if it's 1940s-y enough." She marches over to me and clutches her towel to her body with one hand, pulls me off the couch with the other, and drags me to her and Tyler's bedroom, effectively ending Elena-Tyler time.

Two hours later – after I've assured Caroline that yes, her blue flowered dress and her brown ankle-strap heels look very 1940s, and after we paint our nails and curl our hair, and after I guide her in doing our period makeup (because the only cosmetics I own are a compact of blue glitter eye shadow from Claire's and a tube of watermelon roll-on Lip Smackers lip gloss circa 2001) – Caroline and I strut out of the bathroom all dolled up and ready to go, 1940s style.

Tyler, clad in a button-up and tie, woolen pullover, front-pleat trousers, and a flat cap, wolf-whistles at us as we walk into the living room. "You girls look amazing." His voice is full of reverence for Caroline. His eyes fix to her as she approaches him. He gives her a little twirl and dips her, and they're all smiles when they upright themselves.

"You two are disgustingly cute," I say. Their grins grow even wider as twin blushes stain their cheeks. I give them a moment as I go check my phone.

_**Damon Salvatore: Leaving now, pretty dilly. Hope you're ready to make whoopee on the dance floor!**_

I laugh. Caroline and Tyler look over. "Who's that?" Caroline asks.

"Damon. He's heading to campus now." I send him a response.

_**Let's put on the ritz, cool cat :)**_

I place my phone back in my clutch and look at the time. "It's 8:54, guys. Shall we?"

The three of us don our wool trench coats. Tyler extends an elbow to Caroline and me. "Let's go, ladies."

As I drive the three of us to campus, Caroline asks me a question. "So…you know that you and Damon can't dance together, right?"

My surprise at her question causes me to stop abruptly at a red light. "What are you talking about? I taught him basic swing yesterday; who else would I dance with?"

Caroline and Tyler look at each other before Caroline speaks in a quiet voice. "Elena, you're going to be around a bunch of people tonight who are going to judge your and Damon's connection for what it's supposed to be and not what it is. You can't dance with each other if you don't want to draw attention to yourselves."

"You could probably get away with one or two dances," Tyler interjects. I'm sure that he's trying to make me feel better, but his words only add weight to the emergent stone in my stomach. They're right. Of course they're right. I was so excited at the prospect of getting to share this passion of mine with Damon that I completely overlooked the reality of being able to do so.

My sigh sounds as heavy as my heart. "Three hour dance, two dances. Lucky me."

"Two dances? No way, Elena." Tyler's smile reflects at me in the front windshield. "I'm filling the rest of your dance card tonight."

"I'd rather dance with Damon, anyway," Caroline adds. "He and I are going to have a great time stepping on each other's toes while the two of you tear up the floor with your trained-in-multiple-types-of-ballroom-dance ways. Either way, Tyler's giving me a foot massage at the end of the night." She nods for emphasis as Tyler scrunches his nose.

I glance over at the two of them, surprised at how quickly they devised this plan. "When did you realize that Damon and I wouldn't be able to dance together?"

Caroline falters. "As soon as you left the diner yesterday."

Now I really feel like a fool. "Does he know about your plans for swapping dance partners?"

Tyler chuckles. "Caroline insisted that he dance with her, though I don't think he realizes just how many dances that number's going to be."

"I say this in attempt to make you feel better even though it'll probably make you feel worse, but Damon was really excited when you said that you'd get ready for the dance at our place," Caroline adds. "After you left, he kept talking about how great you were the night you played nothing but jazz songs at Donovan's and how he wondered if the band would play some of the songs you put on his CDs, but he insisted that you'd play the piano parts better because you're really good."

Tyler nods. "It's true. And the only thing he talks about when we train is your novel. He loves it."

"Yeah, I think I've learned more about the plot of your story through what Damon's told Tyler than from what you've directly told me!" Caroline laughs. I chuckle with her and Tyler, but I'm not feeling the humor. I'm grateful to both of them for giving up their date night to salvage my time at the dance, but I'm really, really bummed that I won't get to spend the entire night dancing with Damon like I'd envisioned. Having to continually make loopholes and sneak around to disguise our friendship is really taking its toll on me. It's a mental drain that physically exhausts me – Caroline even had to dab extra concealer on me tonight to hide the dark circles under my eyes.

I've never had to hold myself back from going after what I want before. My parents and Aunt Jenna raised Jeremy and I to take chances and pursue our passions, but I can't do that in this situation for another six months. Sometimes I think about what I'd trade for the universe to fast forward itself to May 13, 2013. Chocolate? Probably. Music? Less likely, though there are some days when Damon will smile at me and I'll think yes, I'd give up music if it was May 13th and I had a guarantee that smile would greet me every day for the rest of my life. Then I realize that I don't even have the right to think these thoughts because I can't fast forward time and even if I could, I don't even know if Damon feels the same way about me so I might give up chocolate and music for nothing.

I'm quiet as I pull into a parking space near the Student Union Building. I turn off the truck but I don't get out with Caroline and Tyler.

Caroline looks confused when she sees me still sitting in the driver's seat. "Elena? You coming?"

I nod. "Yeah, I'll be a minute. Go ahead."

He gaze softens. "We'll find Damon and let him know you're here."

"Thanks, Care."

I sigh as I watch her and Tyler walk into the SUB. My heart hammers with jealousy. Do they not realize what a gift it is to be able to publicly express their feelings for someone? Every time I'm with Damon, every molecule in my body urges me to touch his cheek or hold his hand or do something, anything that lets me expel some of the energy he makes me feel. It's getting harder and harder to restrain myself around him, so I guess it's a good thing that Caroline and Tyler found another way for me to dance away my frustration. No more pity party, Elena.

The blares and honks of brassy instruments fill the air as I walk into the SUB. I hang my trench coat in the congested coat room and walk into the ballroom. A smile appears on my face the second I step into the transformed space. It's like I've stepped back in time to a wartime party. Men strut around in their suits and fedoras as if they're seconds away from engaging in gunfights with Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney. Curled hair and knee-length skirts and dresses flounce in time to the upbeat music. The dance floor is packed with hundreds of people swinging to Fat Joe and his twenty-piece big band, currently playing Duke Ellington's 'It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)'. My toes tap of their own volition, and I feel my spirits revive from sheer giddiness of being in such a lively room.

I keep an eye out for Caroline, Tyler, and Damon as I weave my way through the throngs of people. Between the undergraduate and graduate students and faculty members who showed tonight, there must be at least a thousand students packed in the SUB ballroom. Caroline's tied back her curls with a subdued red ribbon, so I try to scan the crowd for a bobbing blonde head with a dash of red. Unfortunately, there are a lot of blonde women wearing red headscarves tonight, so I beeline to the punch bowl and shoot a multi-text to my three cohorts that tells them where I am.

Caroline calls my name five minutes later. I turn and see her force her way through the crowd. Tyler follows her. I crane my neck to see if Damon's with them.

"He had to take something to his office," Caroline explains, obviously knowing where my thoughts were. "I'll tell you this, Elena, that man can rock a suit and fedora." She fans herself as Tyler rolls his eyes.

I laugh. "Tyler, will you catch me if I swoon?"

"Uh, sure?"

"Better brace yourself, Tyler," Caroline says. "Elena, look."

I look, and everything changes. My world's axis seems to shift as everything unimportant fades from my senses. I barely register the smells of perfume and sweat that fill the air or how warm my fitted silk dress suddenly feels against my skin. The sounds in the room dull to a low hum. I think Caroline's talking to me, but I'm not paying attention to her because the only person I see, the only person who matters right now in this moment, is _him_.

We make eye contact. My cheeks warm as we stare at each other. He looks sinfully good in his three-piece suit, tie, and black wingtip shoes, by far more attractive than Cary Grant or Gregory Peck or Laurence Olivier possibly looked in these clothes, and I note with schoolgirlish pleasure that his scarlet pocket-square is the exact shade of my dress, lipstick, and nails. And then there's the fedora. Its brim shadows his face, and he's tipped it low enough that he has to peek from underneath it to see people. That tease of eye contact pumps my blood into overdrive. How can one hat make someone look so damn alluring? All I want to do right now is drag him into the nearest classroom and demand that he strip down to nothing _but_ that fedora.

The heat in his stare makes me hope that he's having similar feelings about me. His eyes start at my rolled hair and slide down my body. They linger on my chest and hips, on the way that my red silk dress accentuates every curve on my body and makes me feel like as much of a vixen as Ava Gardner or Veronica Lake, and continue down the length of my legs before stopping on my t-strap heels. I feel feverish in the wake of his gaze, like I'm burning, fiery, invincible, like I can do anything I want as long as Damon Salvatore continues to stare at me as if I'm the only one in the room.

He slowly approaches me until we stand a foot apart. His eyes continue to devour me. "Elena. Wow." His gaze sweeps up and down my body in rapid succession. "You look...wow."

I'm just as overwhelmed by how amazing he looks. "You look pretty 'wow' yourself, Damon."

"It's just that...wow," he stammers. He goes to cup my cheek with his hand, but the sound of a cleared throat from behind us makes him withdraw himself. He straightens his stance. "You look incredible."

"Hey, what about me?" Tyler demands. Way to ruin my moment with Damon. Harrumph.

Damon looks over my shoulder and eyes Tyler's outfit. "Did you come here straight from the golf course?" He picks at Tyler's sweatervest, and Tyler shoves him away. They laugh and shake hands before Damon turns to Caroline. "You look as lovely as ever, Caroline."

She giggles. "Flattery will get you everywhere, Damon. Come on, let's dance!" She gives him no time to object as she grabs his hand and tugs him to the dance floor.

Tyler and I watch them bobble around each other for several minutes. I look up at him. "You guys can ditch me anytime you want, you know. I feel bad that you're giving up your time with Caroline to help me enjoy my night."

He scoffs. "I should thank you for sparing my feet." As if to punctuate his point, Caroline tries to spin around Damon and ends up stepping on his shoes. Damon visibly winces as the song comes to a close, resulting in my and Tyler's laughter from our position on the sidelines.

Tyler extends his hand to me. "Ready to show them how it's done?"

Fat Joe and The Naughty Swingers play the opening drum solo to Benny Goodman's 'Sing, Sing, Sing (With a Swing)'. I place my hand in Tyler's. "Let's go."

He leads me to the spot next to Damon and Caroline, who claps when she sees us approach them. "Back up, Damon. These two will need all the space they can get!"

"You got that right," Tyler says. He winks at Caroline and tips the brim of his hat to her before he takes my hands. Damon raises an eyebrow at me in challenge. I smirk at him. Game. On.

The horns blast, and Tyler and I spring into action. We shimmy. We shake. We kick our legs and spin around each other. A small crowd forms around us as he slides me under his legs and flips me over his head. Everyone roars with approval, but Damon and Caroline's cheers are the loudest of the bunch. We grin at them as we continue working the crowd, wowing them with our shim shams and boogie downs and knee slaps and jazz boxes, and when the trumpets honk their last note six minutes later, Tyler ends our showcase with a flashy dip.

Damon and Caroline rush towards us. "You held out on me yesterday, Elena," Damon tsks. "Why didn't you teach me _those_ moves?"

I can't give a proper response because I'm still trying to catch my breath. "Oh, you know, because."

Damon huffs and turns to Tyler, who's collapsed onto Caroline. "What the fuck, man? Since when are you a secret cast member of _Dancing with the Stars_?"

Tyler laughs. "Dude, my Mom forced me to take dancing lessons with her when I was a kid. I stuck with it when I realized that chicks dig a guy who can dance."

"Especially this chick," Caroline adds, grinning at Tyler. He presses a kiss to the top of her forehead.

Damon wrinkles his nose before locking elbows with Caroline and me and walking us to the side of the dance floor. "Come on, ladies. Teach me some _real _moves."

The first half of the dance flies by because I'm having so much fun. Tyler and I model basic swing steps during the fast songs for Damon and Caroline to mimic, and the four of us sit out the slow songs under the guise of "taking a breather". Every now and then Caroline and I will run into some of our friends from class and take pictures with them or join them for a dance. I even get to meet some of Damon's students. Harper's soft-spoken but he seems really nice, and Rose, Trevor, and Slater are attached at the hip. The way they hang on Damon's every word, even the ones spoken casually, makes it obvious that they really respect him as a professor. Rose even asks Damon to dance with her to Glenn Miller's 'Tuxedo Junction'. He looks at her friends for permission, and they nod their heads to grant it. Trevor and Slater then ask Caroline and me to dance, and so the six of us soon find ourselves on the dance floor.

Halfway through the song, Caroline reaches around Trevor's head to grab my arm. "Elena."

I glare at her as I apologize to Slater for the interruption. "What?"

She speaks out of the corner of her mouth. "Look over there."

I follow her line of vision across the sea of dancing couples. There, dressed in a slinky cocktail dress that is decidedly _not_ following the 1940s dress code, is Dr. Pierce...and she's glaring daggers at me.

"Jesus, this woman just doesn't quit," I mutter. I glance at Damon and Rose. "Does he know?"

"I'll tell him as soon as the song ends," she grumbles.

I nod, trying to keep my cool. One night. All I want is one night when Damon and I can enjoy ourselves amongst friends without worrying about the prying eyes of crazy exes. Is that too much to ask for?

When the song ends, I thank Slater for the dance and return to my seat at a side table next to Tyler. I look and see Caroline talking to Damon as they sway back and forth to an arrangement of 'Get Happy'. Damon glances in Dr. Pierce's direction. His shoulders sag. Annoyance steams off his face when he looks over at me. I feel so bad for him, especially now that Dr. Pierce has shifted her glare from me to him and Caroline. She starts strutting towards them. I contemplate running interference, but I'm pretty sure that doing so would result in public catastrophe.

I stand. "I'm going to get some air," I tell Tyler. "Keep an eye on that situation for me, okay?"

He salutes me. "Will do, Elena."

I walk out of the ballroom and into the common area of the SUB. Couple and groups of friends loiter on the couches. The majorities of women have slipped off their shoes and now massage their weary feet. Some of them grab their male friends' fedoras or flat caps and pop them on their heads. I walk past these people to the second-floor stairwell and make my way up the steps. There's a classroom at the end of the hallway with a cutout window that looks into the ballroom. I walk towards it, hoping it's open so I can listen to the music without being jostled by everyone in the room. I smile when the handle turns and I let myself into an empty room.

I walk to the cutout window and look down at the ballroom. The crowd's thinned a bit since I first arrived two hours ago, but a lot of people are still trying to swing to Louis Jordan's 'Choo Choo Ch'Boogie'. I scan the sea of people to look for my friends. Caroline and Tyler are happily spinning around each other, but I don't see Damon or Dr. Pierce. Given that ninety percent of the men and women in the ballroom have fedoras and curled hair, it's tough to distinguish them in the crowd. I feel my anxiety increase when I can't find them. I decide to calm down by sitting in one of the room's vacant chairs, closing my eyes, and letting the music lull me into peace.

My phone suddenly chimes with a text message from where I've placed it inside my bra. I reach into my chest, pull it out, and read the screen.

_**Damon Salvatore: Where are you?**_

I debate whether or not to respond with the truth. Don't get me wrong, my heart aches to see him right now. He looks so handsome in his suit and fedora, and I've spent all night discretely ogling him from afar because I haven't let myself dance with him one-on-one. It'd be really nice to get some alone time with him right now.

At the same time, Dr. Pierce is here and she's on the prowl. She'll take any precarious situation and twist it to her favor, so the fact that Damon and I were even in the same room tonight? Yeah, I might save the both of us a lot of trouble if I let him think that I left.

Then again, if Damon's managed to sneak away from Dr. Pierce enough to send me a text message, this room might be secluded enough to hide from her…

Ten minutes later, someone knocks on the door three times. I stand and creep to the door. I turn the handle, inch it open, and peer through the crack.

Damon's blue eyes greet me. I open the door just wide enough for him to sneak into the room. He closes and locks the door behind him before stalking to the window. "Christ, that woman has awful timing."

I tentatively approach him from behind. "Don't let her ruin your night, Damon."

"I know, I know." He exhales and turns around. "Tonight was fun."

I agree. "Tonight was really fun."

"You've got some moves, pretty girl." Damon's lackluster jazz hands make me giggle. I maintain eye contact with him as I demonstrate the proper way to make jazz hands. He adds more wiggle to his fingers, but it's not enough. I shake my head as I continue to demonstrate jazz hands. He adds more shake to his wiggly hands, but it's not right. I smile and shake my head. We continue grinning and making jazz hands at each other until Damon slowly lowers his fingers to interlock with mine.

His smile fades into a look of wonderment. "You know," he says in a low voice, "I was looking forward to dancing with you tonight."

"Oh?" I wish I could give Damon a more elegant response but I can't because we're alone in this room, and the air feels hot, and he's standing less than a foot away from me, and his fingers are touching my fingers, and I'm so overwhelmed by how crazy I am about him that I can't find the right words to say.

"Been looking forward to it since yesterday," he admits.

The room grows hotter with his confession. We stand by the window with our fingers interlocked. He rubs my hands with his thumbs. Every brush of his skin against mine shoots a stream of sparks into my blood.

I look up at him from beneath my lashes. "Well, the night's not over."

Damon's gaze intensifies. He places his left hand on the small of my waist and closes the space between us. Our other hands stay interlinked. We continue looking into each other's eyes as the band slips into one of my favorite Billie Holiday songs of all time.

_I say I'll move the mountains  
>And I'll move the mountains<br>If he wants them out of the way  
>Crazy he calls me<br>Sure, I'm crazy  
>Crazy in love, I say<em>

_I say I'll go through fire  
>And I'll go through fire<br>As he wants it, so it will be  
>Crazy he calls me<br>Sure, I'm crazy  
>Crazy in love, you see<em>

My eyes close as I rest my head in the crook of Damon's neck and hum the last verse.

_Like the wind that shakes the bough  
>He moves me with a smile<br>The difficult I'll do right now  
>The impossible will take a little while<br>I say I'll care forever  
>And I mean forever<br>If I have to hold up the sky  
>Crazy he calls me<br>Sure, I'm crazy  
>Crazy in love am I<em>

I open my eyes when the song ends. I'm greeted with a splash of electric blue. My breath hitches when Damon makes no move to let me go. His hand moves from my waist to my back and his fingers trace patterns atop my spine. There's no longer any space between our bodies. I inhale his spicy scent and bask in his warmth. I revel in the way I feel the slight thump of his heartbeat, in the way it beats in time with mine. I feel so safe in his arms, but the way he looks at me is the most emotionally dangerous thing I've experienced. I'm captivated by this man. If he wants me to move mountains or walk through fire, I know that I'd do it.

We stay pressed together through a series of slow songs. It's as if a spell's been cast over the two of us and that moving the slightest bit away from each other would break that enchantment. I'm convinced that the magic must be in the music because my body's visceral response to the lyrics in these romantic numbers is to burrow myself into Damon and never let go.

_Hold me close and hold me fast  
>The magic spell you cast<br>This is la vie en rose_

At some point our interlinked bodies start moving around the vacant classroom. Damon and I never move away from each other. Our gazes never disconnect.

_All of me, why not take all of me  
>Can't you see I'm no good without you<em>

Damon spins me once. I feel the heat of his stare travel up my body. When he pulls me back to him, he lowers his lips to my ear. "You look like sin in that dress, Elena."

_Give me a kiss to build a dream on  
>And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss<br>Sweetheart, I ask no more than this  
>A kiss to build a dream on<em>

Goosebumps sprout on my skin when his mouth grazes me. I close my eyes. Damon's lips linger near my ear. His breathing grows heavy. His breath sends shivers down my spine. My hand unlocks from his and slowly drifts up to touch his cheek, his jaw, the nape of his neck.

I feel my back ease against the classroom door. My eyes flutter open. Damon's electric gaze is upon me. He presses me deeper into the door so there's not a hair of space between us. His hand skims up my side and barely stops beneath my breast. A moan escapes my lips at his teasing touch. His breath exhales in a rush. He moves his hips against mine and hisses when his length rubs against my stomach. I thread my hands through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Wait."

My eyes flash up to his closed ones at his sudden command. He pants strained breaths, and he lowers his forehead to my shoulder. The reality of our situation starts creeping back into the room.

Damon takes a deep breath. His head stays on my shoulder as he removes his hands from my waist and lifts them to cup my face. "Not like this." He lifts his head and looks at me. "Not in an empty classroom with so many people around."

My logic finally takes control from my emotions as the enchantment starts to dissolve. I blink and nod. Damon cups my face for a beat longer before reluctantly stepping away from me. I hastily smooth my dress and reach to make sure my hair's still in place. I notice that Damon watches me tidy myself with longing in his eyes. My thighs clench with a mixture of desire and pride. _I_ did that. _I_ mussed his hair. He pressed _me_ into the door. We may have defused this time bomb, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time before the next one detonates.

Damon clears his throat and plants a restrained smile on his face. "Let's find your friends."

"Okay."

Damon steps to the door and places his fingers on the handle. His serious gaze softens as he looks over at me. "I think I might be crazy about you, Elena Gilbert."

His words trigger a swell of emotion in me that I've never experienced before. I take a close look at him. He doesn't look any different from a minute ago – same handsome face, same lean body – but I still feel like I've been hit over the head with a thunderbolt and I can't find my balance. He's _crazy_ about me. He's crazy about _me_! And I'm crazy about—

Oh.

_Oh_.

My eyes widen as realization smacks me upside the face.

I'm in love with Damon Salvatore.

I swallow hard as I try to process this discovery. It's not lust that I feel for him. Sure, it feels like there's a swarm of butterflies in my stomach whenever he's near, but I know that my feelings are so much more than clichéd physical reactions to a devilishly attractive person. Damon's a great man. I've experienced it firsthand. He stayed up with me until three in the morning to motivate me to submit my contest entry. He went out of his way to bring me food when I was sick. He likes my friends and invited us to spend Thanksgiving with him. When he makes mistakes, he owns up to them. He's brilliant and passionate and generous. When I'm around him, he makes me want to be a better person.

How could I _not_ fall in love with Damon Salvatore?

"Elena?"

I dumbly shake my head and snap out of my thoughts. Damon's staring at me with an apprehensive expression. I realize that I've been so wrapped up in my discovery that I failed to respond to his confession. I rush to him and wrap my arms around his midsection.

_I'm in love with you, Damon Salvatore_. "I'm crazy about you too, Damon."

I back away from him with a dazed look on my face. My head's spinning from this realization. I think I'm ready to head home to process everything by myself. I gesture towards the door. "Shall we?"

Damon returns my smile and opens the door for me. We step out of the classroom…and see Dr. Pierce standing in front of us with a smug expression. "Well, isn't this interesting," she says, sauntering over to us. "_Professor_ Damon Salvatore and _student_ Elena Gilbert alone in a classroom that's supposed to be locked. How…_inappropriate_."

I push all thoughts of love for Damon to the backburner and instead focus on our self-preservation. I've had enough of this bitch pushing us around. "What exactly are you implying, Dr. Pierce?"

She turns her glare on me. "I'd start packing your bags instead of sassing me, you little brat. There's no way you'll be back next semester if I have anything to say about it."

Damon rolls his eyes. "What the hell are you talking about, Katherine?"

"I'm talking about," she pauses for effect, "this little romance the two of you've had going on this entire semester. Did you think that no one noticed your little meetings every Monday and Thursday?"

"I'm surprised you did, seeing as you were out of the country most of the time," Damon mutters.

"Oh, I've got friends who kept an eye on you for me. I was worried about you, Damon," she says with an emphasized pout. "You don't think I actually liked leaving you all the time, did you? Frankly, I'm a little bit insulted that you chose _her_ to pass the time with. Don't worry darling, in a few days she'll be out of our hair and we can go back to being as we were."

I decide to play the role of the blameless student. "Look Dr. Pierce, I don't know what you're talking about, but I met with _Professor Salvatore_ on Mondays and Thursdays this semester to ask him for help with my thesis project. That's all."

She rolls her eyes. "Thesis project, novel, extra credit…do you really think I haven't heard all of them before?" She stalks towards us. "Cut the crap. It's obvious that you went to my man for a lot more than 'help'."

"Katherine, not only are you insulting my student and TA, but you're also embarrassing yourself by spewing these ridiculous implications," Damon growls. "_Miss Gilbert_ is telling the truth about our encounters in my office. Stop acting like a paranoid bitch and move on."

We go to move past her, but her hand shoots out and wraps around my wrist. "I have the Academic Dean on speed dial, you know. How about I give him a call right now?"

I cry out when my nails dig into her wrist. "Dr. Pierce, you're hurting me!"

"Jesus, Katherine, get off her!" Damon screams. He tries to insert himself between us, but Dr. Pierce somehow manages to box him out. I have the brief thought that I'm going to die by her hands on the second floor of the SUB. I don't know if the woman forgot to take her crazy pills before she came here tonight, but there's a fire in her eyes that threatens to burn this entire place down. She twists my wrist around my back and forces me into the wall.

"Stay away from Damon, you little bitch," she hisses into my ear. "You can fuck all of the History professors you want except this one. He's mine."

"I broke up with you five days ago, you crazy bitch!" Damon yells, still trying to pull Dr. Pierce from me. I'm definitely going to have bruises on my wrists, and maybe even some cuts from the way her nails are clawing into my skin. My wrist twists as Damon tries to pull her from me, and as I yelp, I hear the most beautiful sound behind us.

"What the hell is going on here?"

I look over and see Dean Shane – yes, _Academic Dean Shane_ – running over to us with a small group of people behind him, Caroline and Tyler included, and he looks _pissed_. Dr. Pierce releases me and I collapse to the floor. She pastes an innocent smile on her face and backs away from me and Damon.

"Just a small misunderstanding between friends, Atticus," she purrs. I cough and look down at my wrists. Ten crescent-shaped slivers of red stare back at me. Small misunderstanding, my ass.

Dean Shane frowns as he looks at me on the floor. "What I saw didn't look like a small misunderstanding, Dr. Pierce." He slowly walks towards me and crouches down in front of me. "What's your name, miss…"

"Gilbert. Elena Gilbert." I resist the urge to make a James Bond joke, as Dean Shane is looking at me very intently.

He nods his head at my wrists. "May I?"

I bob my head and extend my wrists to him. I wince when he takes hold of them, so he gently moves his hands to my forearms. His eyes survey my arms and narrow when he sees Dr. Pierce's claw marks. He snaps his head to her, who's glaring at me with pure loathing in her eyes.

"Dr. Pierce, I think you'd better come with me." He helps me to my feet, and Caroline and Tyler rush to my side. He eyes them cautiously. "I assume the two of you are friends with Miss Gilbert?"

Tyler nods. "Yes, sir."

"Can I trust you to take her to the nurse to get these looked at immediately?" Dean Shane asks. Tyler and Caroline affirmatively respond. The Dean turns to face Damon and Dr. Pierce. "Both of you, come with me."

Katherine huffs. "Why does _she_ get to leave when she's the one who antagonized me in the first place?"

A squawk catches in Damon's throat as Dean Shane tries to not roll his eyes. "I will speak to Miss Gilbert about this incident after she's patched up from your assault, Dr. Pierce."

"But she—"

"_Enough_."

Dr. Pierce silences. She shoots me one last glare before following Dean Shane down the hallway to his office. I make eye contact with Damon. I expect to see panic in his eyes, so I breathe a sigh of relief when I see his expression of utter confidence. He has a plan. He _has_ to have a plan. I don't know what it is, but I suddenly feel better about this entire situation.

Thirty minutes later, Dean Shane walks into the nurse's office and clears his throat. "Miss Gilbert, may I speak with you in private?"

Caroline and Tyler scurry out of the room, leaving Dean Shane sitting at the side of the bed on which I've been ordered to rest. "How are your wrists?"

I show him my bandaged arms. "A bit sore, but I know that they'll heal."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Miss Gilbert, I just received two very different accounts of what happened tonight from Dr. Pierce and Professor Salvatore. Can you please tell me your version of the incident?"

I tell Dean Shane the edited version of tonight, that Professor Salvatore asked me to be his Teaching Assistant next semester and that we took a brief break from the dance to complete some preemptive planning. I tell him that when Professor Salvatore and I left the classroom to return to the dance, Dr. Pierce was waiting outside the door and accused me and him of engaging in a romantic relationship behind her back. I insist that while Professor Salvatore and I got to know each other this semester through our biweekly meetings regarding my thesis, there is no truth to Dr. Pierce's accusations.

When I finish my story, Dean Shane's forehead wrinkles. "Your story corroborates with Professor Salvatore's."

I breathe a mental sigh of relief. "I'm sorry that you had to deal with this on what was supposed to be a fun night."

"No need to apologize to me, Miss Gilbert. If anything, I should apologize to you." He exhales sharply. "I want to assure you that Dr. Pierce will be reprimanded for her inexcusable actions."

I can barely contain the Cheshire-Cat smile that threatens to burst onto my face. "Thank you, Dean Shane."

I receive a call from him on Saturday informing me that Dr. Pierce has been suspended from her teaching duties at the University of Atlanta for a minimum of one semester. She's also been issued a protective restraining order that orders her to stay a minimum of one hundred yards from Damon and myself at all times. As soon as I hang up the phone, I release a whoop of victory and dance around the apartment.

Matt gives me a funny look. "What happened?"

My face can't contain my grin. "Ding dong, the bitch is gone."

_And I'm in love with Damon_.

* * *

><p><strong>Sometimes I wish that my dances were as eventful as the ones in TVD-land, don't you? Anyways, thanks to everyone for continuing to read and review BIYE! I'm aiming for 50 chapters, so we don't have much longer to go (sad face). <strong>

**Thanks to all who've answered my fan fiction questionnaire for graduate school. If you'd like to know more about this project or are interested in answering some questions about why you read fan fiction, shoot me a PM with your email address and I'll send you the questionnaire.**

**Twitter****: jazzywritingAmy**


	45. Chapter 45

When I arrive at Donovan's the night after the 1940s dance, it's so crowded that I have to muscle my way into the bar. I wonder why there are so many students out tonight. It's two Saturdays before Christmas and school's halfway through finals, so maybe everyone's venturing out for one last hurrah before they leave for winter break. Donovan's Band's also playing holiday-themed music tonight, so that's another possible draw. I've never seen so many people crammed into this place.

I hear my name as I weave my way to the bar. I look to see who's talking to me, but people glance away as soon as I make eye contact with them. I try to say hi to some of my classmates, but they're unusually standoffish. My face flushes as more eyes settle on me. I hear loud whispers of "dance", "Professor Salvatore", and "secret affair". I'm freaking out by the time I reach the bar because I'm sure that everyone's here _not_ to hear the band play, but because they want the scoop on what went down at the dance last night.

Matt rushes over to me. "Crowded tonight," I wryly comment.

"People are jackasses," he mutters. I told him what happened this morning – well, everything but the part when Damon and I slow-danced in an empty classroom for thirty minutes and almost got it on against the door. Anyways, Matt was so mad when he saw the bandages on my wrists that I had to talk him out of filing a police complaint against Dr. Pierce. If that's how laid-back Matt reacted to what happened, God help Dr. Pierce when Bonnie learns about my evening.

Matt slides me a chalice and a bottle of Troeg's Mad Elf Ale. "Is _he_ coming tonight?"

"He texted me a few hours ago and said that he'll show up after he finishes some grading." I grimace. "People are going to watch us all night, aren't they?"

"Just act like everything's normal. You'll be old news by the end of the night." He chuckles. "If not, you can always count on Bonnie to cause a scene."

"Thank God for that."

I pour my beer into the glass and loiter near Matt as I wait for the rest of the band to arrive. A group of fraternity brothers stumble their way to the bar and order a round of Jagermeister shots. As Matt pours the liquor into ten shot glasses, one of the guys looks at me. His glassy eyes squint. They widen several seconds later.

"Dude, you're the chick who's banging her teacher!" he blurts.

The bar area quiets. All eyes fall on me. I grip my chalice to keep from decking this guy in the face.

I look him straight in the eye. "No, I'm not."

"You _so_ are!" Frat Boy has the balls to point his sausage-fingers in my face. "You're totally boning that History professor, dude!"

I clench my teeth. "I'm not boning anyone, _dude_." It stings that it's true. There are few things more aggravating than honestly answering that you're not sleeping with the person you want to sleep with.

Frat Boy refuses to be deterred. He sloppily grins and leans closer to me. "When you're done with the old guy, I bet you and I could have some fun—"

"Hey!" Matt glares at him. "Get out of my bar."

Frat Boy laughs in Matt's face. "Why, you fucking her, too?"

Matt's eyes narrow to slits. His muscles flex as he starts to hop over the bar, but he stops when Frat Boy emits a girlish squeak and drops to the floor. Bonnie stands directly behind him with a venomous expression. She's flanked on either side by Caroline and Tyler. She crouches down and stares Frat Boy directly in the eyes, looking every bit like a vengeful sorceress who's about to drown this jerk in every possible incarnation of hellfire and brimstone.

Her voice drips with malice. "If you and your buddies don't get the fuck out of this bar in the next ten seconds, I swear to God I'll kick you so hard in that Slim Jim you call a dick that people will call you Nancy for the rest of your life. Capiche?"

Frat Boy nods so fast, I think his head's going to detach itself from the rest of his body. He clutches his crotch and winces as he scrambles to his feet. He mutters to his fraternity brothers. They look at me and Bonnie. She taps an invisible watch on her wrist. They abandon their filled shot glasses and jostle each other to leave Donovan's, making it outside with a second to spare.

Matt pushes the ten shots of Jager to everyone in the band and several people sitting at the bar. "Too bad they paid for their drinks before they could enjoy them," he smirks.

"Fucking assholes," Tyler mutters. He looks at Bonnie. "Give me some warning before I get on your bad side, okay? That guy dropped like a sack of potatoes."

"I don't kickbox for nothing, Lockwood." She swallows her Jager shot and drinks mine as well. "Gilbert, your battle scars from last night. Lemme see 'em."

I obediently push up my sleeves and extend my arms to Bonnie. She looks at my wrists and snarls.

"If that bitch has any sense of self-preservation, she'll already be on a plane to Bumfuck, Nowhere," she growls. "And even _that_ won't be enough to stop me from finding her, dragging her back to the lab, and pouring all sorts of flesh-burning chemicals on her ass. I've seen every torture movie every released. She'll sob like a little girl before I lay a finger on her."

My eyes widen at the vivid images Bonnie's created. "That's…that's a little intense, Bon."

Caroline's appalled. "What a wonderful conversation to have on the night of our holiday show!"

Tyler laughs, kissing her forehead. "Thinking about torture _is_ Bonnie's Christmas, babe."

The four of us glance at Bonnie. She's muttering things about bear traps and cyanide under her breath. Matt and Tyler stifle their laughter at Caroline's horrified expression.

"I'll be so happy if I forget about this conversation before I die." She shakes her head and looks at the wall clock. "Okay, holiday show. We go on in fifteen minutes. Is everyone cool with the set list I emailed you this afternoon? Good mix of songs?"

Everyone nods. She claps her hands. "Good. Elena and Ty, help me fix the stage. Matt, finish up at the bar and send Lady Rambo over when she stops fantasizing about torture. And when our favorite professor shows up," she glances at me, "give him a heads up that people are being jerks about last night so he doesn't make things worse."

"Sure thing, Care."

Ten minutes later, Bonnie and Matt join us onstage. "Damon's here with Alaric," he whispers. "They're ready to hunt down the frat assholes from earlier."

"I told them to get in line," Bonnie interjects. "Ain't no way Teach 1 and Teach 2 are getting their hands on those guys before I do. They probably punch like a bunch of pansies, anyway."

Great, now I'm getting turned on in the middle of Donovan's at the thought of Damon's arm muscles. I had a front-row view of them last night. There's no way that man can pack so much heat and not throw a decent punch.

"Hello? Elena!" Caroline's voice snaps me from my salacious thoughts. "It's show time. You ready?"

I position my fingers atop my piano keys. "Start me, up, Sweet Caroline."

She wrinkles her nose. "Neil Diamond, Elena? Not cool." She turns to Tyler and counts to three, and he strums the opening chords to Dropkick Murphys' 'The Season's Upon Us'.

This year's set list kicks ass, and our performances reflect how amped we are to play these once-a-year songs. Caroline's voice is kaleidoscopic. She's electrified perfection when she growls The White Stripes' 'Candy Cane Children' and Bruce Springsteen's cover of 'Santa Claus is Comin' to Town'. She's pure vixen when she croons Amos Milburn's 'Let's Make Christmas Merry, Baby', so much so that I swear every male in the room wants to let her ride their, uh, reindeer. The rest of the band matches her impish energy. Bonnie insisted that we play metal covers of holiday songs, and her arms are a whirling blur as she pounds away on King Diamond's 'No Presents for Christmas'. Tyler's just as showy on The Ramones' 'Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight)', bouncing around the stage and leading the crowd in a sing-along during the last chorus, and Matt shows off his chops when we slow things down and play Barenaked Ladies' bass-centric version of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen'. My fingers glide across the piano keys during Louis Armstrong's 'Christmas in New Orleans', caressing those black and white stripes as if they're silk sheets that just beg to be touched. Donovan's Band is on Yuletide fire, and when we close the first half of the show with a sing-along of 'The Dreidel Song', I feel much better than I did when we started playing an hour ago.

As the rest of the band replenishes their booze at the bar, I stay seated on my piano stool. I'm still not ready to brave the crowd to grab another beer, so I keep my distance from the hordes of people by taking advantage of Matt's rule that no one but Donovan's Band members can come onstage. Part of me feels like a coward for not facing everyone head-on, but it's tough to be the subject of school-wide gossip.

"Hey, Elena."

I look down. Damon and Alaric stand at the foot of the stage. I order my heart to calm down. "Hey, professors."

Damon looks at me with concern. "Are you okay? I heard about—"

"Don't worry about it." I see people watching us out of the corner of my eye. "It'll blow over next semester."

Alaric sighs. "Way to take a beat from each other in public, guys."

Damon glares at him. "Excuse me if I failed to plan for the possibility of my ex-girlfriend viciously attacking my advisee and Teaching Assistant during the middle of a school dance, _Alaric_." He turns and scowls at the people watching our exchange. They quickly pretend to be interested in the condensation on their pint glasses.

"Hey, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." I lean towards Damon and Alaric and lower my voice. "There's a restraining order against her and she's gone next semester. I'll wear my battle scars proudly if that's the end result."

"It's just a flesh wound, right?" Alaric quips.

I giggle at his _Monty Python_ reference. "Exactly."

Damon frowns. "She's actually gone for the rest of this semester." He elaborate when Alaric and I give him confused looks. "Dean Shane told me that he doesn't want Katherine to be around her students right now. She has to electronically submit this semester's grades and stay at least five miles away from campus for the rest of the year."

"Wow." I process Damon's words. Dr. Pierce is gone. I never have to see this woman again. It's a bittersweet feeling, this realization. Don't get me wrong, I have no desire to spend time with her. I've never liked her, and I'm certainly not going to miss experiencing the effects of her selfish, manipulative ways. At the same time, thinking about her downfall makes me sad. She was always so delusional about her self-importance. I wonder what happened in her life to make her think she can control people into doing her bidding. It's a shame that she deteriorated so quickly after Damon broke up with her. Maybe she did have genuine feelings for him and that's why she acted so bat-shit crazy last night. Maybe she's just grasping for control over one of her former minions. Either way, as thrilled as I am that I no longer have to deal with her shit, I can't help but feel bad at how much her stunt cost her.

I'm grateful when my bandmates return to the stage and give me the opportunity to leave Damon and Alaric. I suppress my conflicted thoughts about Dr. Pierce by diving into the music. My fingers cramp from rocking too hard on our bluesy cover of Trans-Siberian Orchestra's 'Wizards in Winter', so I take it easy when Caroline and Tyler duet on 'Baby, It's Cold Outside'. The lyrics of that song creep me out – come on, there's no way that the male singer hasn't spiked the female singer's drink with _something_ – but Caroline and Tyler are just so. Frigging. Adorable.

I find myself comparing this duet to the one she sang with Klaus. Their cover of 'If I Didn't Know Better' was intense to the highest degree. I remember being spellbound by the way their voices blended together, by the lust that coated every syllable dripping from their tongues. The passion they emanated was discomforting, not necessarily because it shouldn't have been there but because I know that Caroline didn't trust Klaus; more importantly, she didn't trust herself.

As I watch Caroline and Tyler sing to each other, I see two people in perfect harmony with one another. It's more than mere stage presence; we're getting a glimpse into their life together. She struts around him, playfully brushing his arm or winking at him during the naughtier lyrics. He infuses a teasing desperation in his voice as he tries interlinking their fingers and she twirls out of his grasp. When he sings that her eyes are like starlight, the adoration on his face shows that he means it. It's plain to see that he's crazy about her. The crowd gives them a raucous standing ovation. It warms my heart to watch love seep from their eyes as they stare at each other and soak up the applause.

We spend the rest of the night covering more of our holiday favorites: Elvis Presley's 'Santa Claus is Back in Town', Adam Sandler's 'The Hanukkah Song', The Pogues' 'Fairytale in New York', and Thurl Ravenscroft's 'You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch'. We end the night by going back to our blues roots, hitting the crowd with a gritty, snarling version of 'Merry Christmas Baby'. Each band member rocks a solo. When it's my turn, I close my eyes and throw my body into the music. The piano shakes with my efforts. I pound chords and pretend that I'm jabbing my fingers into the eyes of Frat Boy. Runs and riffs emerge from beneath my fingertips. Sweat slips down my back. I end my solo with a resounding clang and toss the song back to Caroline. She brings the house down, ending the song on her knees at the front of the stage. The crowd roars. The five of us stand and take a bow.

Caroline reaches for the microphone. "Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, Atlanta! We'll see you in 2013!"

I linger onstage as the crowd begins to disperse, giving them time to clear out before I join Damon and Alaric at their table. I agree with Matt that I need to act like everything's normal, but I'd feel more comfortable if less people were around to misinterpret our "normal". How do celebrities handle being the center of attention all the time? It's no wonder that so many of them shave their heads or jump on Oprah's couch like it's a bed. I've only had to deal with public scrutiny for a few hours and I'm already sick of it!

When the bar finally dwindles to a third of its capacity, I stop dawdling and join Caroline, Tyler, and Bonnie at Damon and Alaric's table. Bonnie pulls up a chair for me between her and Alaric.

Alaric grins at me. "You really got into your closing solo, didn't you?"

"Tell me about it!" Caroline exclaims. "I thought she was going to break the piano!"

"I may have taken my frustrations out on the piano keys," I admit. Bonnie and the three men all toast me with their glasses. I clink my chalice to theirs and take a drink, relaxing as the beer cools my throat.

"These two just tried to talk us into playing at your department holiday party on the 23rd," Caroline says. "Seriously, who schedules any kind of holiday party on the Sunday before Christmas? People have already headed home and it's only the 14th!"

"Yeah, whoever reserved the space didn't think that one out too well," Alaric says. "I think it's at some fancy lounge downtown. It's a bummer that you'll all be gone."

"Elena won't," Damon interjects. He gives me an intense look. "You're still leaving on the 24th, right?"

"As long as a freak snowstorm doesn't delay my flight." I take a sip of beer. "I'll play piano at the party. I don't mind. It's more your party than mine, anyway. I'm technically the property of the school English department."

Damon rolls his eyes at me. "You spend so much time in McKenna, you might as well be an honorary member of the History department. Don't think for one second that I'm letting you out of this one. If I have to schmooze with a bunch of old biddies, so do you."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Do you put all of your dates to work at company functions?"

He smirks. "Only the boring ones I don't want to talk to."

The rest of the table cracks up. I glare at Damon. "I'll remember this next semester, Fearless Leader." I stand with an empty glass. "I'm going for a refill. Anyone need anything?"

Caroline wants two fingers of whiskey, and Alaric asks for another pint of Sam Adams' Winter Lager. I try to carry our three empty glasses at once and bobble the whiskey tumbler. Damon promptly stands and takes it from me. "Let me help."

_I love you_. "Thanks."

He follows me to the bar and lets me place an order with Matt. As we wait for him to pour our drinks, Damon clears his throat. "Have you heard back from the Halloween writing contest?"

I shake my head. "It should be any day now. The website said they'd make their final decision by Christmas."

"You're going to win." He leans against the bar. "Your story was amazing. It was so cool to watch you work. Once you got going, your fingers just flew across my keyboard."

"I think I was fueled by the massive amounts of Sonic goodness you brought me." My mouth waters at the mere thought of those tater tots. "Seriously, I couldn't have pulled off that story without your help."

He smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at the floor. "I feel bad that I pressured you into writing it. Between school and your Halloween show, you were already working your ass off. You didn't need some jackass teacher adding something else to your plate."

"Hey." My voice is sharp. It makes Damon look at me. "Don't call yourself a jackass teacher. If I didn't want to participate, I wouldn't have submitted something. Don't blame yourself for…"

My voice trails off as I realize how much I liked Damon, even back then. I remember that week was one of the most exhausting ones I've had during my six years of college, and I still took on something else because _he_ showed an interest in my success. If Alaric or one of my English professors had told me about the writing contests, I'd have told them no and had no problem doing it. When Damon asked me to submit something, I didn't want to tell him no. Even back then, I wanted to impress him.

More importantly, I didn't want to disappoint him.

I look back at Damon. He's mesmerizing. I want to touch my fingers to the sharp lines of his face, to immerse myself in those eyes that are bluer than a Western sky. He's watching me with curious eyes. 'I love you' is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow my words. "Just…just don't put yourself down like that anymore, okay? It hurts me to hear someone talk about my fri…someone I care about that way."

Matt places our drinks in front of Damon and me with a resounding clink. "I didn't think this night could get any more stressful," he groans. "Clearly I was wrong."

Damon and I look at him. "What's wrong?" I ask.

He gestures at the door. "The Mikaelsons are here."

I turn to the right and sure enough, all five Mikaelsons are making their way into Donovan's. Rebekah and Kol lead the way, strutting across the floor as if they're the king and queen of Atlanta. Finn follows them, intently listening to the buxom redhead at his side. I see Klaus next. His eyes scan the room, presumably for Caroline. Elijah rounds up the pack. His fingers interlink with those of a stunning brunette. She has doe eyes and a soft smile that matches the one on his face. He sees Damon and me sitting at the bar and immediately guides the brunette towards us.

"Elena. Matthew. Mr. Salvatore. So good to see you again." Elijah kisses my cheek and shakes Matt's hand. He then extends his hand to Damon, who takes it after a brief moment of hesitation.

The brunette waits at Elijah's side. She offers me a tentative smile which I return. Elijah puts his arm around her. "Elena, Matthew, Damon, this is my Tatia. Tatia, this is Damon Salvatore, Matthew Donovan, and Elena Gilbert."

"Pleased to meet you," she says in a distinct Eastern European accent. "Elijah's told me much about you and your music." She pulls me into her arms and kisses my cheeks. I return the gesture. I'm pleasantly floored by this unexpected development. Since when does Elijah have a girlfriend? He and I've known each other for at least a year and he's never mentioned her to me.

"Elijah's very supportive of me and my friends," I say. "He's a very talented musician."

"He says you are better piano player than he is," Tatia says without a hint of condescension in her voice. "I tell him that is surely not true, but he insists."

I raise an eyebrow at Elijah for confirmation. He smiles and wraps an arm around Tatia's waist. "I wanted to bring Tatia to your holiday-themed performance to show her how talented you are, but my dear siblings delayed us."

"Let me guess, Blondie couldn't decide what to wear?" Damon quips.

"Actually, it was Kol."

The five of us look at Kol. He's dressed in the same leather jacket, dark jeans, and leather boots combination that he always wears, so I have no clue what took him so long to choose an outfit. I then realized that he's settled in my vacated chair next to Bonnie. The expressions on their faces imply that he's flirting with her and she's having none of it.

We turn back to each other. "Your friend does not seem to like Elijah's brother," Tatia giggles. "Kol always gets what he wants. Is good that someone tells him no."

Damon grabs Caroline and Alaric's drinks. "Come here, I'll introduce you to the group." He leads Tatia back to our table, leaving myself at the bar with Matt and Elijah.

Elijah orders scotch for himself and a glass of Cabernet for Tatia. His eyes stay on Tatia the entire time. They light when she laughs at something Bonnie says. I smile at his obvious adoration for this woman.

He catches me smiling. "What is it, Miss Elena?"

"You're in love," I tease.

"I am."

"Tell me about her!" I demand. "Where's she from? Where did you meet? How long have you been together?"

"So many questions," he playfully chides. He sits next to me at the bar. "Let's see. Just under two years ago, a client hired me to defend them in Washington, D.C.. Suffice it to say, the first day of the trial did not go well, and I found myself in dire need of a drink of Balvenie 21 Portwood scotch to allay my frustrations. I took the elevator downstairs to my hotel's bar with the intent to sit by myself and re-strategize my plan of attack. I was halfway through my drink when this beautiful woman walks over to me and tells me that I am too handsome to look so sad."

Elijah chuckles. "I was so determined to remain focused on my court case that I tried to dismiss her advances, but she sat on the barstool next to mine and introduced herself. At first I kept trying to find ways to dismiss myself from our conversation, but the more she talked, the more I wanted to learn everything I could about her. I extended my stay in your nation's capital so I could take her out to dinner the following three evenings."

"That's so cute," I gush. "What was Tatia doing in D.C.?"

"Tatia's a Russian diplomat." Elijah takes a sip of his scotch. "She works at the Embassy of the Russian Federation. I later learned that she was only in my hotel because she was meeting several people there for an important meeting. I consider myself a very lucky man that my court case did not go well that morning. Had I not been determined to have that drink, I would have never met Tatia."

"That's great, man," Matt says. "But still, it's gotta be rough to be in a long-distance relationship."

"It is difficult," Elijah agrees. "Tatia and I have flourishing careers in the cities we currently live, and our careers frequently take us away from each other. I miss her terribly when I'm not around her. I travel to Washington as often as I can to visit her."

He looks at me. "You remind me of her, Elena. You're both very kind, ambitious women who always look out for the needs of others. I suppose that's why I've always been drawn to you. I apologize if any of my previous actions could be perceived as untoward."

I blush at his sweet words. "I'm flattered that you'd compare me to someone you hold in such high regard, Elijah. I've only known her for five minutes and I already know that she's great."

We look at their table and see her animatedly conversing with Alaric and Damon as the others watch them. My eyes narrow when I see that Caroline's no longer amongst everyone.

"Matt, do you know where Caroline is?"

He stops wiping the countertop and scans the room. "No clue."

"It appears that Niklaus has also disappeared," Elijah comments. "Perhaps they are together."

"That can't be good," I mutter.

Elijah considers. "I believe that your friend and my brother are long overdue for a talk about their unstable relationship. It is evident to me that Niklaus cares very deeply for Miss Caroline. Of course, none of that matters if she does not reciprocate his feelings."

"I have a feeling we'll know where she stands after tonight." Matt reaches underneath the bar and comes up frowning and empty-handed. "Lena, can you head to the back room and grab me some bar coasters? I thought I had some under the counter but I can't find them."

I hop down from the bar stool. "Sure thing, Matt." I walk down the back hallway and into the storage room. As I search the space for a stack of coasters, Caroline and Klaus's voices echo around the corner. I tiptoe towards them and stop to hide behind several stacked boxes of toilet paper. I peer around the boxes. Caroline's back is pressed against a wall, and Klaus stands two feet in front of her. She looks uncomfortable, but not enough that I feel the need to barge into their conversation. I listen to them.

"…okay, I'll admit it. I like you, Klaus—"

"—as you should, love—"

"—but I'm in love with Tyler."

The smirk that graces Klaus's face falls to the ground. His jaw clenches. The muscles in his neck bob as he looks at Caroline with narrowed eyes. "Don't say that to me. You didn't always love him. You could learn to love me. I know it."

Caroline shakes her head. "I can't. Tyler's it for me. I'm really sorry that it took me so long to figure it out, but I know in my heart that the most we can ever be is good friends."

Klaus scowls. "I don't want to be your _friend_, Caroline. Don't offer me your friendship as some bloody insulting consolation prize."

The malice in his voice causes Caroline's lower lip to tremble. "I didn't mean to insult you."

Klaus's hands clench into fists. "Do you really think that I could spend time with you and pretend that I don't want more? That we could go out to lunch or spend a day together at the museum and it would mean nothing to me but innocent fun?" He paces in front of her. "I want to be your _everything_, Caroline. I want your face to be the first and last thing I see each day. I want to know everything about you: your hopes, your dreams, everything you want in life. I want to be the first person to whom you tell your good news and the shoulder you cry on when life doesn't go your way."

He stops and places his hands on either side of the wall behind her, effectively caging her between his arms. "Do not ask me to be satisfied with merely orbiting your world when all I want is to be a part of it."

"No, you want to _be_ my world," Caroline retorts. "If you truly wanted to be a part of my world, you'd accept my friendship, not give me this 'all or nothing' ultimatum!"

I hear a shuffling noise. I turn and see Tyler enter the room. He stops behind me and peers around the toilet paper boxes.

Klaus grits his teeth. "I will not share you with him. Perhaps you should reconsider the depth of his devotion to you, given that he's so willing to share you with me."

Caroline slaps at his chest. "Okay, you can be mad at me all you want, but don't you dare say anything bad about Tyler. He's ignored his pride these past few weeks by not giving me crap for hanging out with you. You know why that is? Because at the end of the day Tyler just wants me to be happy, even if that means that I end up with someone else. I don't deserve to be with someone as selfless as him, but I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of his love."

Tyler tenses as Klaus's hands cup Caroline's face. "Give me a proper chance to be worthy of you, Caroline. Give _us_ a proper chance to be magnificent together."

A tear falls down her cheek. "No."

His thumb wipes away the tear. "I love you, Caroline."

She sniffles. "I don't feel the same way about you."

"Prove it." Klaus closes the distance between their bodies. "Kiss me."

Tyler makes a fist. Caroline freezes. "What?"

"Kiss me." He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "Kiss me and honestly tell me that you don't feel for me what I feel for you."

Her eyes widen. "I'm not going to kiss you to prove some sadistic point of yours, Klaus."

"Please, Caroline." He moves his mouth a breath away from hers. "If you're as in love with Tyler as you claim to be, what could it hurt? Just one kiss."

I feel like a spectator as I watch Klaus press his lips to Caroline. She stiffly stands there as his mouth tries to coax hers into action. When she doesn't respond, his lips trail kisses down her neck. Tyler heavily breathes behind me. His anger rolls off him in waves, though to his credit, he stays put and watches Caroline's unresponsive reaction.

"Kiss me back, Caroline," he murmurs into her neck.

She shakes her head. "Klaus, stop."

He doesn't hear her, continuing to kiss the underside of her ear before moving back towards her mouth. Caroline's eyes widen as he brushes the outer edge of her lips. She places her hands on his chest and gives him a firm shove. He breathes heavily as she glares at him. "Leave. Now."

"But—"

She crosses her arms. "Now."

He steps towards her, but the toxic look in her eyes is enough to stop him in his tracks. He storms towards the door, slowing his gait only when he sees Tyler standing within earshot in the storage room. The narrowed way they stare at each other reminds me of two alpha wolves preparing to attack one another, but Klaus eventually rages towards the door.

Tyler exhales besides me. He looks at Caroline, who's still leaning against the concrete wall. Her chest heaves with deep exhalations, and her fingers clench in and out of fists. Tyler goes straight to her.

Her eyes widen as he approaches. "Tyler, I'm so sorry, I told him no, I—"

Caroline's words muffle when Tyler pulls her into his chest. He strokes her back and murmurs things like "I know" and "it's okay, we're okay". My heart swells for them, and I quietly back out of the room with the originally sought pack of bar coasters to give them their space.

When I reenter the main bar area, the only people remaining are Damon, Matt, Bonnie, Elijah, and Tatia. I place the coasters behind the bar and join them. "This place cleared out! How long was I in the back room?"

"At least thirty minutes," Matt says. He points his thumb at the wall clock. "It's 2:15. Bar's closed."

"2:15?" I yawn into my arms before resting my head on them.

Damon ruffles my hair. "Someone's sleepy."

Matt stands. "Lena, give me two minutes to check on Caroline and Tyler and we'll head home."

"I suppose that's our cue to leave." Elijah stands and pulls Tatia's chair from the table. "As always, it's been a pleasure."

"Yes, it has been so lovely to meet you all." Tatia hugs everyone – even Bonnie – at the table. "We must gather the next time I visit Elijah."

"That'd be fucking awesome." Bonnie gives Damon and I farewell fist bumps before following Elijah and Tatia outside. "You're a badass chick, Tatia Petrova. Teach me your ways."

Damon and I look at each other. "Can you imagine if chemical lab technician Bonnie and Russian diplomat Tatia joined forces?" he jokes. "I don't think the world's going to survive."

I shudder. "Hopefully we'll have time to work out an escape plan before anything gets blown to pieces."

A noise sounds behind us. We turn and see Matt emerge from the hallway. "I let Caroline and Tyler leave through the alleyway exit. Figured they wanted to avoid people for a while after whatever went down between her and Klaus."

"It was an intense conversation," I admit. "But I think things will finally calm down around here."

Matt nods. "Let's hope so. My bar wasn't built for all of this excitement."

Damon offers to drive Matt and I home. It feels like five degrees outside – we accept. I huddle between the both of them as we walk to Damon's Camaro. Internal warmth spreads throughout my body when I realize that I'm between my two best friends. I've never felt so comfortable in my own skin.

Damon pulls in front of our apartment fifteen minutes later. He shakes Matt's hand and leans across the passenger seat to hug me. I press my nose in the crook of his arm and inhale the spicy leather.

"Be good, Elena," he says into my hair. "I'll see you next week."

I linger in his arms for a bit longer. It's so easy to lose track of myself when I'm in them. I eventually pull away and step out of the car. I wave goodbye before walking into the building. I feel Damon's eyes on me the entire time.

* * *

><p>"I didn't win."<p>

I stare at my computer screen. I reread the email.

_**From: G.S. Johnson Literary Award  
>To: Elena Gilbert<br>Sent: Sat 12/22/2012 4:25 PM  
>Subject: Your Submission to the 2012 G.S. Johnson Literary Award<strong>_

_**Dear Miss Gilbert,**_

_**Your submission to the G.S. Johnson Literary Award contest was given careful consideration by the G.S. Johnson Board of Directors. You did not place in our 2012 contest. Your story was one of hundreds of distinguished submissions. We had to deny wins to a number of very talented writers with very impressive stories, many of whom will no doubt go on to eminent writing careers. We wish you success in your future endeavors.**_

_**Regards,**_

_**Uther Javindra  
>Member, G.S. Johnson Board of Directors<strong>_

I close my laptop. Exhausting myself, coercing Damon's office on Halloween, it was all for nothing. I wasn't good enough. I didn't win.

Tears spring to my eyes as I slump on my bed. How did I not win? I'm a good writer. A _great_ writer. I mean, I earned a place in the University of Atlanta's Master of Fine Arts program for Historical Fiction. My stories have been published in nationally-recognized literary magazines. My English professors asked me to lead a writing workshop next semester. I broke three keys on my keyboard this past week finishing my goddamn novel. When I submitted it, my English department advisor took me out for a celebratory beer and gave me the names and contact information of several publishers she's worked with in the past. These things don't happen to you if you're a bad writer! Damn it, I did not submit "one of hundreds of distinguished submissions"! My story was better than that! It should have at least placed, right?

I grab my phone from my nightstand and press several buttons.

"Hello?"

My voice wavers. "I didn't win, Damon."

"Shit." He exhales through the phone. "Where are you right now?"

I sniffle. "In my apartment."

"Stay put. I'll be there in twenty." I hear something rustling on his end of the line. "It's going to be okay, pretty girl. You're my Academic Wench. I'm gonna get you out of this funk."

I smile in spite of the tears that drip down my cheeks. "You better, Fearless Leader."

"Nineteen minutes," he says. "I'll call when I'm out front."

Fifteen minutes later, 'Swept Away' sounds from my phone. I answer it. "That was fast."

"Got lucky with the traffic lights," Damon says. "Now buzz me in."

I dash to my living room and press the button that lets Damon into the apartment complex. "Done."

"I'm coming up."

I wait at the door until I hear footsteps in the hallway. I open the door before Damon has a chance to knock on it. He enters the apartment and immediately hugs me. "Those people are idiots for not choosing your story," he murmurs into my hair.

I wrap my arms around his stomach. "Total idiots."

Damon chuckles. "One of the judges probably hates anything to do with New Orleans. She probably got dumped there right before she read your story and decided to rank it low on principle."

"It could have been a he," I mutter. "Men make dumb decisions after being scorned, too."

"What are you talking about? Men _never_ make dumb decisions, Elena." Damon steps back from me. He surveys my bloodshot eyes and wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. "No more tears over this contest, pretty girl. Yeah, losing sucks, but you'll get them next time. Don't let this ruin your last two-and-a-half days in Atlanta before the holidays."

"I know. I won't." I sigh and sit down on the living room couch. "I don't think I ever expected to win, but I thought I'd at least place, you know?"

Damon sits next to me. "Think of it this way. Yes, you were beat by at least three people whose stories the judges enjoyed more than yours. When the winning stories are published, read and learn from them. Don't get me wrong, I thought your story was phenomenal, but maybe you can pick up some tricks that'll make your writing even better than it already is. I don't know if that's comforting, but I figured I'd give it a shot."

"Not comforting," I grumble under my breath.

The corners of Damon's eyes crinkle with amusement. "Stop moping."

"I'm not moping."

"Your arms are crossed and you have the cutest pout on your face. Moping, thy name is Elena."

I quickly uncross my arms. "Don't I get a grace period to mope for a few hours?"

"Not around me, you don't. Come on, get up." He pulls me to my feet. "Go change. We're going out."

I gesture at my red face and weekend sweatpants. "I look like a hobo!"

"Shut up, you're beautiful. And you've got fifteen minutes to change before I decide what you wear." He waggles his eyebrows. "I'm assuming you don't want to give me access to your underwear drawer."

My face flames. "You're not serious."

"Serious as a heart attack." He taps the silver watch on his wrist. "Fourteen minutes, Elena."

I eventually emerge from my bedroom. "This okay?"

Damon looks at my Led Zeppelin shirt, skinny jeans, and Converse. "Perfect. Let's hit the road." He stands to his feet and tosses me my coat as heads out the door.

"Wait, what?" I struggle to put on my coat and keep up with his brisk pace. "I thought we were heading to Donovan's."

"We were at Donovan's two nights ago to see your friends off before they left for break." He opens and closes the Camaro door for me before circling to the driver's side. "Time to get out of the city and mix things up. I want alone time with you before you leave on Sunday."

Even though the semester's technically over, I'm still apprehensive of being seen in public with Damon. The idea of alone time with him, however, sends sparks down my spine. My logical side struggles to regain control of the situation. "We can't go far if we're both drinking. Someone has to drive us home."

"Are you always this difficult when people try to cheer you up?" he teases. His pinky finger links with mine. "Relax. Let me take care of you."

It is _really_ difficult to tell the man of your dreams to stop doting on you when it's all you've wanted him to do for the past month. I pretend to zip my lips shut and settle back in my seat. Damon grins as he turns onto the main road. Our fingers stay linked.

Thirty minutes later, the Camaro pulls into the parking lot of a nondescript tavern. "Bree's Bar," I read. "How'd you find this place?"

"Bree's an old friend of the family. It's okay, she's cool," he says when he notices me stiffen. "She also makes a mean holiday cocktail. A few of them and you won't be able to feel your legs by the end of the night."

We walk inside. The first thing I notice is the old-school blues music playing from the speakers. The grit of B.B. King's guitar melts my troubles away. I survey the place and see oak and cabernet-colored walls adorned with knick knacks and sepia photographs. Two occupied pool tables stand on one side of the room while an antique jukebox leans against a brick wall. The room's decorated with lots of draped greenery and red bows. The faint scent of cinnamon mixes with the stronger ones of whiskey and cigar smoke. It's holiday picturesque, and I love it.

"Damon Salvatore!" I look and see an athletic, middle-aged woman with dark skin and kinked hair approaching us. Her full lips smile as she gives Damon a big hug. "Boy, you haven't changed a bit."

He kisses her cheek. "You look beautiful, Bree."

Bree rolls her eyes. "Don't mock me, boy. You know these wrinkles weren't here the last time I saw you. And where are your manners? Introduce me to your lovely lady friend."

Damon grins. "Bree, this is Elena. Elena, meet Bree." His hand slips to the small of my back. "She's been a thorn in my side for as long as I can remember."

"And I'll continue to be one as long as you sass me," she retorts. She shakes my hand. I feel overexposed as she studies my face. "So you're the famous Elena. Damon's told me a lot about you."

"He has?" I delight when the tips of his ears turn pink.

"Mmhmm." Bree continues to look at me. She turns to Damon after what seems like an eternity of scrutiny. "She's much better than the last one you brought in here. Prettier, too. You better not mistreat her, boy."

Yeah, I can't imagine Dr. Pierce enjoying a place as rough-edged as Bree's Bar. My face warms as Damon wraps his arm around my waist. "I wouldn't dare. In fact, Elena had a bad day, so I brought her here to make her feel better."

"I've got just the thing for you, sugar." Bree steals me from Damon and leads me to a barstool. She ducks under the bar and starts pouring a bunch of flavored alcohol into a martini shaker. "What's your favorite holiday flavor, baby?"

"Uh, pumpkin?"

Her smile spreads across her face. "Just you wait, sugar. I'm gonna make you the best pumpkin pie martini you've ever had in your life."

Damon sits next to me. "Bree was my babysitter way back when. We had a lot of good times together, didn't we, Bree?"

She whirls around with her hand on her hip. "Are you kidding me? You were a little hellion, Damon Salvatore. Always streaking through the house wearing nothing but your God-given assets after a bath, leaving tiny water footprints all over the damn floors."

"You're clearly losing it in your old age, Bree." He winks at me. "I was an angel when you were around."

"Yeah, an angel with them devil horns on your head." She sets a filled martini glass in front of me. "Here you go, baby."

I raise the glass to my lips. Pumpkin pie flavor bursts in my mouth. I taste vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, and even graham cracker crumbs. I look at Bree with wonder. "It's like you've bottled pumpkin pie in liquid form."

She smirks. "Wait until you taste what I can do with apple pie."

"Bree makes a mean caramel apple pie cocktail," Damon says, sipping the bourbon Bree placed in front of him.

My eyebrow lifts. "Isn't that drink a bit feminine for your usual tastes?"

Damon pretends to look offended. "I'm a man of many tastes, Elena. Besides, you're surprisingly judgmental for a woman whose drink of choice is beer."

I raise my hands in self-defense. "I'm not being judgmental; I'm acknowledging a deviation in your character."

"Maybe it's less of a character deviation and more of a dormant possibility that's been awakened by someone really special." Damon sets down his glass and looks at me, and I get the feeling that we're not just talking about cocktails. "Do you think people can change, Elena?"

How can I not? I remember the Damon Salvatore I first met was stoic and standoffish, and he let the misfortunes of his past dominate his present. As I look at the man in front of me, I see a man who's open to the new: to new people and experiences, to music and forgiveness and healing. As I consider myself, I see a woman who's learned to take chances both in and out of the classroom, to stand up for herself and for other people. Neither Damon nor I are the same people we were in August.

"I don't think we'd be here tonight if either one of us wasn't capable of change," I admit.

Damon gives my knee a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad we're here tonight."

"Me too."

His hand stays on my knee as we look at each other. My entire being radiates with love for this man. I feel it flow from my heart to every crevice of my body, from the tips of my toes that long to move closer to him to the eyes that see him stare at me with staggering appreciation. The air cracks around us. It takes every ounce of resistance I have to not kiss him. God, I want to kiss him.

I abruptly break our trance and take another sip of my martini. "Gosh, this is good." I push the glass towards Damon. "Want to try? I mean, you might as well since you're a connoisseur of Bree's holiday cocktails. "

He smirks. "Watch it, pretty girl." He takes the glass and downs the remainder of my drink in one gulp. My mouth drops open as he slides the empty glass towards the end of the bar. "Watch out for Elena, Bree. She's a lush!"

"I am not!"

"You causing trouble again, boy?" Bree stands in front of us and scowls at Damon. He tries to look chastised, but a smile forms at the corner of his mouth. She rolls her dark eyes and looks at me. "What'll you have, baby girl?"

I stick my tongue out at Damon. "Whatever he won't drink."

Bree laughs. "Oh, I like you, honey. You keep him on his toes."

Damon's arm wraps around my waist. "Keep the drinks coming, Bree. This night's going to be one to remember."

An hour later, I've finished a peppermint-infused mudslide and am waiting for Bree to remake me a pumpkin pie martini that I'll actually drink. Damon's on his third glass of bourbon. His fingers trace patterns on my knee.

Two hours later, Damon insists that he can hold his liquor better than me. He orders us a round of three tequila shots. When he wobbles to the bathroom a moment later, I ask Bree to fill my shot glasses with water. Hey, someone has to drive us home tonight, and I'm already feeling a bit woozy. Then again, it could be the gingerbread apple pie cocktail I just finished. It could also be the way that Damon keeps going out of his way to stroke my arm.

Four hours later, Damon drags me to the ancient jukebox. He stands behind me and presses our bodies together as I flip through the songs. "Choose songs from your Naughty Things playlist," he implores, brushing his lips against my ear. Shivers wrack my body. My fingers tremble as I press the jukebox buttons. Buddy Guy's 'She Got the Devil in Her' plays through the speakers.

_That woman got the devil in her  
>She says she feel like doing something wrong<em>

Damon pulls me to the makeshift dance floor. I giggle when he attempts to spin me and ends up stumbling into another couple. They glare at him. I apologize and pull him back to me. The sloppy grin on his face makes my heart stutter, as does the way he hugs my waist and rests his face in the crook of my neck.

"Comfortable?" I tease.

His nose trails up my neck. "Very."

We sway back and forth. The song changes to Duffy's 'Syrup and Honey'. I start humming the tune against Damon's cheek.

_Don't you be wasting all your money  
>On syrup and honey because I'm sweet enough<br>Don't you be using every minute on making a living  
>Because we got our love<em>

_Listen to me, one two three  
>Baby, baby, baby, spend your time on me<em>

Damon tightens his hold on me. "These songs are _very_ informative, Elena."

I notice Bree observing us from the bar. "How so?"

His hand slides lower down my spine. "I'm getting a clearer picture of what you like. I bet when you play this song, you want to take things nice...and...slow."

His words shoot lustful sparks to the space between my legs. I don't say anything as the song changes to Screamin' Jay Hawkins' 'I Put a Spell On You', wondering if he'll interpret this choice as accurately as he did the last song.

Damon listens through the first chorus. "I bet when you play this song, you like to be in control... rob a man of his senses and leave him panting for you."

_I love you, I love you, I love you  
>I love you anyhow<br>And I don't care if you don't want me  
>I'm yours right now<em>

_I put a spell on you  
>Because you're mine<em>

I shakily exhale. Every howled 'I love you' from Screamin' Jay just punctuates the longing in my heart. We're close to the bathrooms. I could just drag Damon in and have my way with him there.

No. Not here. Not until May 13th.

I'm grateful when the song ends. It gives me the opportunity to help a blissfully drunk Damon back to his barstool. Bree can keep an eye on him while I grab some much-needed air. "Bree, can you keep an eye on him for me?"

"Where are you going?" Damon's eyes widen as he clutches my arm. "Can I come?"

I smooth his hair back from his brow. "I don't think you want to come with me to the bathroom, handsome."

He sloppily grins. "You called me handsome."

Bree thankfully intervenes before I can respond. "Will you let poor Elena go, Damon? She'll be right back."

His eyes don't leave mine. "You promise?"

Is it just me, or are his eyes bluer when he drinks? "I promise, Damon."

After I used the bathroom and wash my hands, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I feel like I've held my breath the entire night and can finally breath again. Damon's being so handsy tonight, and I love it. I know I shouldn't want him to touch my back or stroke my knee, but it feels so good having his hands on my body. I shake my head and try giving myself a stern look. _No, Elena_. Right. None of those thoughts. Damon's still off-limits. To make sure he stays off-limits, I'm sobering up. No more alcohol tonight. He can drink all he wants, and I'll drive us home. Besides, if I keep my wits about me, I won't be as tempted to drag him into this bathroom stall and do things to him that are worthy of the Naughty Things playlist.

Damon leaps up to greet me when I emerge from the restroom. "Elena! You came back!" He picks me up and spins me around before getting too dizzy to continue.

I laugh at his cross-eyed expression before whispering to Bree. "Can you give me non-alcoholic drinks for the rest of the night?"

She snorts. "Sure thing, baby. I think you'll need all the wits you can muster to deal with this lunatic."

We look at Damon. He's currently debating with the grizzled man next to him about the merits of growing a mustache. An unbidden smile springs to my face. "He's not so bad."

Bree glances at Damon before leaning closer to me. "You're in love with him."

"Yes."

She crosses her arms. "Have you told him?"

I shake my head. "Our relationship is complicated," I say, thinking about the no-dating clause and last week's scandal at the dance.

"Child, please." Bree huffs. "Every relationship is complicated. You just have to decide if the rewards are worth the risks."

"If we're caught together, he's going to get fired and I'm going to get expelled," I whisper.

"Oh. That _is_ complicated." Her brow furrows. "Well sugar, people always say to follow your heart, but sometimes our heart doesn't always take us down the easiest path when we're in love. I could tell from the moment you walked in my bar that you care about Damon even more than you do yourself. Lord knows that man needs someone to care for him after all these years."

She clears her throat. "Unfortunately, sometimes caring for someone more than yourself means breaking your heart to save his. You get what I'm saying?"

I nod, though I really don't know where she's going with this. Damon fortunately chooses that moment to turn to me. He grabs a lock of my hair and places it over his upper lip. "Elena, would I look good with a mustache?" I shake my head. He turns back to the man sitting next to him. "Sorry Mac, my lady says no."

"Too bad," he grunts, looking down at his pint of beer. I chuckle and let Damon attempt to braid my hair, though Bree's cryptic words still float in the back of my mind.

The bar crowd starts thinning around one in the morning. Damon's transformed from a happy drunk into a sleepy-happy drunk, and I'm sober enough to drive us home. I help him stand and wrap my arm around his waist. His arm thuds on my shoulder.

"Bye, Bree!" His head rests on mine. "I'm gonna see you a _lot_ next week. Father and Stefan are invading the boarding house for Christmas and I can't wait."

"You take care of yourself Damon, you hear?" Bree comes around the bar and hugs Damon. She pats my cheeks and whispers in my ear. "You come back too, Miss Elena. And think about what I said."

"I will," I promise. I'm sure I'll think of nothing but her confusing advice when I get home, but right now? My priority's on getting a stumbling Damon to the boarding house.

Damon's full weight leans on me as we make our way to his Camaro. "Geez, you're heavy when you're drunk," I gripe.

Damon giggles – yes, _giggles_. "You're heavy when you're drunk."

I prop him against the car. "Where are your car keys, Damon?"

His resulting smile is wolfish. "In my pocket."

Oh, the things that smile makes me feel. "Can you hand them to me?"

He shakes his head. "I need you to find them."

_Oh boy_. I take a deep breath and move my hand to his coat pocket. "You're being very difficult right now, Damon."

He shakes his head. "No, I'm not. I just wanted you to touch me. You have really pretty hands, pretty Elena. And pretty hair, and pretty eyes, and pretty hair, and pretty eyes..."

"Hush, now." I finally retrieve the car keys and open the door. My heart pounds as I buckle Damon into the passenger's seat. I shut the door and race around to the driver's side. I stare at the unfamiliar controls and acclimate myself before placing the keys in the ignition. The car purrs to life.

Damon leans back in his seat. "You better take care of my baby," he slurs. "I've never let anyone else drive her. You're the first. Numero uno. Pretty, special Elena. I'm sleepy, Elena. Can we go to bed now?"

I flush at his suggestive words. I turn onto the road before gently squeezing his leg. "Go to sleep, handsome. I'll wake you up when we're at the boarding house."

"I feel really happy when you call me handsome..." His voice trails off, quickly replaced by soft snores.

I park the Camaro in Damon's driveway forty minutes later. I pocket his keys in my pocket and gently shake him. "Damon? We're at the boarding house."

His eyes flutter open. He groggily stares at the windshield before looking at me. A boyish smile spreads on his face. "You're here."

"Someone's got to get you inside." I unclick his seatbelt, lean over to unlock his car door, and scurry outside. I help him stand and lean on me. We clumsily maneuver our way into the house through the side entrance.

Damon lifts his head from my shoulder. "Is it time for bed, Elena?"

"Do you think you can make it upstairs?" He nods and allows me to lead him to the staircase. The tip of his tongue peeks from his mouth as he takes each step one at a time. It's adorable. _He_'s adorable.

I open Damon's bedroom door and lead him to the bed. He falls on it. His eyes close as I help him remove his boots and cover him with a blanket. I lift his head and slip a pillow underneath. As I sit on the edge of the bed, I brush the dark hair from his eyes. His face is youthful in sleep. There's none of that worry that clouds him during the day, nothing causing him stress in his dreams. I stroke his forehead once more before standing. My heart beats _I love you I love you I love you_.

His hand grabs my wrist. "Elena."

His eyes fly open. They meet mine. His thumb rubs my pulse points. My blood skips at his touch. He sits up and touches my cheek. It flames. His eyes burn a hole in me. That hole grows larger as he leans closer, never breaking eye contact until he rests his head near my ear.

"Stay."

His teeth tug my earlobe before I respond. I freeze. He blows warm air on the wet lobe before nipping at it once more. I gasp. Not like this. Not when he's two seconds from falling asleep and not remembering any of it in the morning. Not when I have to see him and his colleagues at today's department holiday party. Not when we have five months to go, and oh God, his lips are doing magical things to my neck right now. I clench my fists to keep from straddling him to the bed. I want to, but not now, not like this, not when he doesn't know what he's doing.

I struggle to keep my hands steady as I slowly disentangle myself from him. His eyelids blink once, then twice. His crooked smile nearly disarms me as he touches my cheek again. "You're so pretty, pretty Elena."

"Shhh." I lower him to the bed and pull the blankets up once again. I finally let my hands tremble when I turn off his bedroom lights. "Sweet dreams, Damon." I creep into his adjoining bathroom, pour him a glass of water, and leave it with two aspirin on his nightstand table before tiptoeing from the room.

I walk downstairs and call Matt. He answers on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"Matty, I need you to pick me up."

I hear his sheets rustle. "Now? It's almost two in the morning."

My voice trembles. "Please, Matty. I'm at Damon's."

His end of the line is silent. I can only imagine what's running through his head. "I'll be there in twenty."

"Thank you." My voice is small as I hang up. I decide to wait outside. I'm physically shaking in spite of the cold. Bree's words replay themselves in my head like an old film reel.

_Sometimes caring for someone more than yourself means breaking your heart to save his_.

I sit on Damon's side stoop, shivering as I contemplate her words. I love Damon. I love him with every fiber of my being. Do I care about him more than I care about myself? Well, Tyler cares about Caroline more than he cares about himself. He was willing to sacrifice his happiness with her if it meant that she'd be happier with someone else. Could I do that for Damon? Could I sacrifice my present happiness with him if it meant that he'd be happier in the long run? I'd like to think so, but we keep giving ourselves excuses to spend time together. This semester, it was my thesis project. Next semester, it's teaching and planning our class. Maybe I should've told him no and lead the writing workshop instead, but I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible, knowing that we'd likely continue to grow closer. I was subconsciously giving myself permission to be expelled. I was subconsciously sending Damon to the employment gallows.

If I was really in love with Damon, I would never place him in that situation.

Matt's headlights shine through the nighttime fog and punctuate my realization. I go wait for him at the end of the driveway. He brakes in front of me. I hop in the truck. He's wearing an annoyed expression, but it quickly turns to one of concern when he sees my face.

"Did you...?"

I sigh. "No. Nothing happened."

We're quiet for the first five minutes of the drive until I tell him everything: about not winning the contest, about Damon driving me to Bree's Bar to cheer me up, about the way we danced and drank and he said things that made me feel good about myself. I take a deep breath before telling Matt how Damon was so drunk that I had to drive the Camaro back to his house. By the time I tell him how I helped him to bed and he asked me to stay before nipping my ear and kissing my neck, tears stream down my face – not over what's happened, but over the clearing image of what I need to do to save him.

Matt sits and listens without interruption the entire drive. I know he's exhausted from working at the bar and he's driving home to Mystic Falls in six hours, but when we get to the apartment, he sits next to me on our futon instead of retreating to his room. We're quiet. I glance over and see wrinkles mar his forehead. I'm sure that they mirror mine.

"I'm in love with him, Matt." My voice cracks. "And until tonight I thought I was doing a good job of loving him by spending time with him when I shouldn't have, you know? I knew we were taking a risk by inviting him to No Show Karaoke or by sneaking away from the dance, but I guess I foolishly thought that we'd find a way to make it work and not get caught. I don't think we can do that anymore. We're getting sloppy in public. I worry that one day we're going to cross a line and not even realize it, and the next day he's going to get fired because I couldn't keep my hands to myself."

"Or because he touched you," Matt offers, his voice coarse with sleep. He yawns and faces me. "Lena, I'm going to ask you something, and you need to answer honestly – not honestly as in 'I honestly want this to happen', but honestly as in 'this is what's going to happen whether I want it to or not'."

I'm terrified to hear his question. "Okay."

"Can you guarantee me that you and Damon can keep things professional on campus next semester?"

I think about falling asleep together in his office. I think about our loaded conversation on the soccer field. I think about the classroom above the ballroom and everything that transpired in it. "No."

Matt doesn't seem fazed by my answer. "Is being his TA really the best thing for your futures on campus? For your relationship if something goes wrong?"

My stomach's in my throat. What if Damon and I take things too far and get found out? Will he resent me, knowing I'm the reason he's gotten fired from his first professorial job? Will he still want to be with me, even after we've both been kicked off campus and can actually pursue a relationship independent of U of A rules? There's no way. But if I back away from him now – honestly, full-fledgedly distance myself from him – he won't get fired. He can't resent me in the long run for doing what's best for him, right? Bree's words echo in my head. _Sometimes caring for someone more than yourself means breaking your heart to save his_. My heart's breaking right now. Hell, it's fucking shattered, but I'm going to put Damon's needs before my own. He might not understand right now, but he'll eventually get it. I hope.

I'm too upset to answer Matt. My chest heaves with suppressed sobs, and when he opens his arms to me I fall into them. I don't cry. Not now. Not yet. I let Matt hold me for a moment longer before I sigh and stand up. "Thanks, Matty."

Concern fills his blue eyes. "You okay?" he asks over a yawn.

I shake my head. "Can we hang out a lot when I get to Mystic Falls? I have a feeling I'm going to need you."

His eyes soften. "Of course."

Moments later, I stand in my bedroom with my laptop open. I pull up U of A's online course registration screen and scroll to the link to Damon's class. Even though I'm his TA, I still had to enroll in the course. My mouse hovers over the _**Drop**_ button. I close my eyes. Damon fills my vision.

"_Stay."_

I shake my head. "I can't."

I click and open my eyes.

_**Course dropped**_.

No more Academic Wench.

* * *

><p><strong>Trust me.<br>**

**Apologies for the late update. This chapter was a doozy to write, and I wanted to perfect it before releasing it to you. I'd love to know your thoughts on everything that happened. Again, trust me. Deep breaths. I have a plan! (Famous last words, eh?)**

**Thanks to everyone who's completed my fan fiction questionnaire! Your enthusiasm for my project humbles me - I've received so many unique and thoughtful responses, and I look forward to analyzing them after I finish BIYE. I've realized that I jinx my writing schedule when I try to impose deadlines on myself, so yeah, no more epic declarations from me about when this story will end. We've got two days of plot left to cover - stick around!**

**Twitter: jazzywritingAmy**


	46. Chapter 46

Five hours later, a quiet knock sounds on my bedroom door. "Lena? You awake?"

Matt's gentle voice reminds me how soft Damon's voice sounded when he asked me to stay with him. My throat clenches. "Yeah."

"Can I come in?"

My eyes stay glued to the same spot on the ceiling that I've stared at since I dropped Damon's class. "Yeah."

The door opens. The floor creaks with Matt's footsteps and my bed sags with his weight. Concern rolls off him in waves and blankets me in minor comfort that someone's looking out for me. I feel him scan my gaunt appearance, pausing to observe the growing bags under my eyes and then making a final stop to note that I'm wearing the same clothes I wore to Bree's Bar last night.

Matt shifts on the bed. "I wanted to see if I can get you anything before I head home."

I shake my head. Matt nods in the corner of my eye. "What about breakfast? Or even a cup of tea and a piece of toast?"

"No thanks." I barely recognize the sound of my empty voice. I remind myself of one of T.S. Eliot's hollow men, my headpiece filled with straw, my dry whispers quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass. I am a hollow woman, but I'm not hollow because I feel everything right now instead of nothing, I feel everything sad and guilty and regretful and love, soul-soaring love for a man who deserves nothing but my selflessness, and so I'll be selfless and destroy myself to save him. My voice may sound hollow, but my mind can never be empty now that Damon Salvatore's managed to permeate every fiber of my every thought.

I hear Matt's boots thud on the floor before he lies next to me on the bed. We rest together in quiet. Even though our bodies don't touch, I still feel the warmth that radiates from him. I also feel his eyes lift from me. Maybe he's looking at my ceiling and trying to see why I stare at it so intently. I've memorized every inch of my drywall since I dropped Damon's class last night and needed something to distract myself from my resulting misery.

"Jeremy texted me last night," Matt finally says. "He and Anna got in town last night and wanted to know when we're showing up. He said he tried to call you, but I guess you didn't hear your phone."

I grab my phone from my nightstand and lower my eyes to the screen. One missed call from Jeremy Gilbert at 8:35 last night. Great, now my liaisons with Damon are impacting my relationship with my not-so-little brother. Jeremy probably doesn't care that I didn't answer his call, but I feel like an ass.

Matt clears his throat. "You still going to play piano at tonight's holiday party?"

I wince. Do I want to go? No, not at all. The only reason I initially agreed to entertain the History department faculty and staff was so I could spend my last night in Atlanta with Damon before I flew home on the 24th. Once Damon figures out what I've done to him, there's no way he'll want to hang out with me – which is probably for the best, seeing as dangerous things happen when we spend a lot of time together.

On the other hand, I gave my word to Damon and Alaric – who passed it on to their department chairperson – that I would play piano at their holiday party. Right now, my promises seem meaningless. After all, I promised Damon that I'd be his TA and that's no longer the case, so why not break another promise and skip the party?

Because I'd like to not fall into the habit of breaking promises, of course. Yes, in the grand scheme of things bailing on being someone's TA is a bigger deal than bailing on entertaining people at a small holiday party, but people would notice if I didn't make an appearance tonight. I've got to keep up appearances to prevent more people from speculating about my relationship with Damon. I figure I'll stay close to the piano the entire time and befriend one of the Vonne Lounge staff members to bring me occasional food and drink refills until ten o'clock rolls around and I can hightail it out of there.

I sigh. "Yes, I'm still going to the party."

"Huh." Matt's quiet for a moment. "What are you going to do if..."

"...if I see him?" I wring my fingers. "I don't know."

Matt pauses. "If it were me, I'd want answers ASAP."

Yes, because telling Damon "I dropped your class because I'm in love with you and I don't want you to get fired because I can't control my hands around you" sounds like a _great_ idea. "I'll tell him something."

"You should tell him the truth, Elena."

Something about the edge to Matt's voice gets under my skin. "Well, the truth is that I love Damon and that I did this to make sure he's not sacked on my behalf. Should I tell him that, Matt?" I look down at my wrists and see slight flickers of movement underneath Dr. Pierce's healing scratch marks, visual heartbeats that remind me with each _not hollow _pulse how in love with Damon I really am.

I finally look at Matt and see him staring at the ceiling with a contrite expression. "I don't know," he says. "Maybe your confession will inspire him to make one of his own."

I quickly suppress my excitement at the thought of Damon making a similar confession. What's the point of humoring that possibility? Damon probably won't want anything to do with me for a long time. I don't need to rub salt in my emotional wounds by thinking about what would happen if he did say anything close to those three words.

I look at my cell phone and see that it's half past eight. "You should get going if you want to make it home before dark, Matt."

He scrubs his face and sits up. "You're probably right. Man, I am not looking forward to this eight-hour drive."

I sit up and follow him into the living room. His ragged suitcase sits by the door. "Text me when you stop for lunch and when you get to Mystic Falls, okay?"

"Sure." He zips his coat and hugs me. "What are you going to do between now and the party?"

I shrug. "Pack?"

"For eleven hours?" Matt raises an eyebrow. "The party starts at seven, right?"

"I'm going to get there at six-thirty to make sure everything's okay with the piano. And stop raising your eyebrow at me," I order. "I know it only takes thirty minutes to pack. I'll read a book or something to distract myself the rest of the day."

Matt frowns. "I can stick around if you want company, Lena."

I gently shove Matt towards our apartment door. "No way am I going to let you hover over me all day. Get on the road and don't worry about me. I'll feel better after I shower."

Matt still looks skeptical, but he eventually nods and takes his suitcase from me. "Call me if you want to talk, okay?"

"I will. I promise. But I'll be fine." I give him a final hug. "Drive safe, okay?"

Three minutes later, I watch Matt's truck grow smaller in my window as he drives away from our apartment complex. As soon as the truck's no longer in sight, the bravery I fronted for his benefit dissolves back into the same feelings of anxiety, frustration, guilt, and heartache that consumed me all night. I keep glancing at my phone, equal parts hopeful and paranoid that Damon will call at any second and demand to know why I did what I did…despite the fact that it's a quarter to nine in the morning and he's likely sleeping off a massive hangover from last night. He probably won't call within the next hour – hell, within the next three hours – but that phone call's going to happen, and I have to be prepared to give Damon the answers that he deserves.

However, until I figure out the perfect way to relay those answers so that Damon and I are still super-close and he's magically okay with me abandoning him like everyone else in his life, I'm going to distract myself with everything I can think to use as a diversion.

Packing my suitcase only takes thirty minutes. I realize that the white tank top I've packed is the same one I wore the night Damon and I accidentally fell asleep in his office. I remember how his arms held me to him, how I felt so safe in those arms despite the fact that I knew I shouldn't be in them. My chest constricts as I close my suitcase, but I push that tight feeling aside.

I spend the next two hours cleaning the apartment from head to toe. When I'm in the kitchen, I remember how Damon brought me Donovan's wings when I was sick and how he navigated my kitchen to make me his family's cure-all drink. I then remember how he and I made breakfast together in his kitchen the morning after Thanksgiving and how easily I pictured us preparing meals there in ten, twenty years, both of us working comfortably around each other as our children flurry in and out of the room. I choke on a sob at the mental image of a rosy-cheeked girl with my hair and Damon's blue eyes. _Stop it, Elena_, I scold myself. I dry the last pint glass, place it in the cabinet, and hurry out of the kitchen.

Since menial tasks aren't helping me forget about Damon, I decide to try yoga. I pop one of the hour-long yoga videos I borrowed from Caroline into the living room DVD player and try to focus on that. Deep breaths in, deep breaths out. Inhale positivity, exhale negativity. I can do this.

My concentration's effectively destroyed the second my phone chimes with a text. I don't even bother to pause the DVD as I race to my bedroom and read the cell screen.

_**Damon Salvatore: I think I drank too much last night. How did I get home?**_

My entire body tenses as I read his text no less than ten times. He says he _thinks_ he drank too much last night. Is he trying to be funny or is he really not sure if he drank a lot? And is he testing me when he asks how he got to the boarding house? Does he not remember that I drove his Camaro? If he doesn't remember how he got home, does he remember kissing my neck and asking me to stay?

What if he doesn't? How do I handle _that_ situation?

I type a response and delete it, then type another response and erase that one as well. _You're over-thinking this, Elena_, I scold myself. _Just respond to the damn text message_. I finally type something unassuming and hit Send.

_**Elena Gilbert: I drove us to your place in the Camaro. How are you feeling?**_

I stare at my phone and wait for Damon's response. Ten seconds pass. My fingers start to twitch. Thirty seconds pass. I start pacing around my bedroom. When two minutes pass, I'm in full-on panic mode. When 'Swept Away' rings from my cell – five whole minutes later – I have an hour-long debate with myself in the span of five minutes as to whether or not I should let his call go to voicemail. I'm not prepared to talk to him. What if he walks to his office on the other side of the boarding house, logs in to check his course roster, and sees that I'm not on it? Seven o'clock Elena might know what to say, but this twelve o'clock Elena does not! I can say that I didn't hear my phone because I hopped in the shower…or because I was practicing piano for tonight…or because our neighbors were having really loud sex and I couldn't hear my ringtone over the sound of Mrs. Kingswold's moans. He'll never suspect a thing.

Yeah, right.

I don't know where this conversation's going to go, but I can't pass up what might be a final opportunity to hear Damon's voice sans malice towards me. "Hey."

"Elena, I think I'm dying."

I smile at Damon's roughened voice. He rasps his words as if someone used his throat to scrub gravel. He always sounds so polished, so hearing such a coarse sound from him tempts me to take a cab to the boarding house and see hungover Damon in the flesh. "You sound wrecked."

"I feel wrecked," he moans. "It's like an army of dwarves invaded my skull and are driving their pickaxes into my brain all at once."

I sit on my bed. "For someone whose brain is being mined as we speak, you're surprisingly creative. I might have to use that dwarf idea in a future story." Okay, this is good. I can do this. I can be casual, Everything's Cool Elena.

He groans. "Fine. But please stop talking to me through a megaphone. It's like those dwarves hooked my head up to a decibel meter and my head's going to explode if you talk above a whisper."

I resist the urge to comment that I _was_ talking softly for his benefit. "Maybe you should co-write this story with me. Sounds like you've got the plot down."

"Easy with the sass, Academic Wench. You can't use it when I'm incapacitated and can't keep up with you."

My stomach turns when Damon calls me Academic Wench. I was never crazy about the 'wench' half of the nickname, but I liked that he gave it to me. Hearing him call me those two words made me feel special, like we belonged to each other. If I tell him that nickname no longer applies to me, I'll no longer be his. I guess I was never his to begin, but now it's official.

Damon doesn't need to know that yet. I mean, the man's talking about dwarves excavating his brain. He's in no place to have such a serious conversation. It can wait.

I decide to steer our conversation back to Damon's condition. "Did you see the water and the aspirin I left on your nightstand?"

"I can't open my eyes. The light's too bright." I hear his sheets rustle and assume that he's stretching for the medicine. Damon confirms my assumptions when I hear the slight tap of two pills against each other followed by the clinking sound of glass on wood. "How long before this stuff starts to work?"

"Usually thirty minutes or so."

"Damn," he grumbles. "Thirty more minutes of tiny men heigh-hoing their way through my skull."

I frown. "I'm sorry that you're feeling so rotten, Damon."

He makes a _pssht_ noise. "I'm sorry that I can't say the same thing to you. Last night was supposed to make you feel better, and I'm the one with the hangover? How lame is that? Some caretaker I am."

"If it makes you feel better, I appreciate that you took a hangover for the team," I offer. My body tenses when I refer to Damon and me as a team. _Liar_. "Don't worry, I still had fun."

"Did you really have a good time?" he asks. "You're not just saying that to make me feel better, right?"

The uncertainty in his voice breaks another piece of my heart. "I really had a good time, Damon. I promise."

"Yeah, you'll have to help me piece together what happened." Damon's laugh sounds more like a grimace. "I vaguely remember us heading over to the jukebox, but everything after that's a blank."

I drop my phone to the bed. I should feel relieved, but I'm _crushed_ by this news. Damon doesn't know that we attempted to dance to songs on my Naughty Things playlist. He doesn't know that I reached into the pockets of the jacket on his body to find his car keys. He doesn't know that he nipped my ear and asked me to stay and made my heart yearn for his so badly. He doesn't remember any of these moments that I'm going to treasure for the rest of my life.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

"Elena?" Damon's voice sounds from my phone. "You there?"

My hands shake as I hold my cell to my ear. "Yeah, sorry about that. Bad service."

"I noticed that your apartment's a black hole when it comes to bad service," he says, going on as if he _can't_ hear how loudly my heart's beating right now. Seriously, I think the astronauts in space can hear my heartbeat right now.

"Yeah, the reception here really stinks," I nervously laugh, noticing that I have four bars of service in my bedroom. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He sighs, and I imagine him sheepishly running a hand through his sleep-crazed hair. "I was asking you how badly I embarrassed myself last night."

What do I tell him? _How much_ do I tell him? I can't say anything, right? I have to keep last night a secret. What if he's disgusted when he finds out that we danced or that his lips became well-acquainted with my neck? Okay, he probably won't be disgusted, but he'll definitely be embarrassed that he doesn't remember doing it and things will be weird between us again. Decision made.

"You're quiet," Damon nervously says. "_That's_ not good."

"What? No, everything's fine." I turn on my speakerphone so I can massage my temples. "You didn't embarrass yourself, I promise."

Damon grunts. "Really? Because my head's screaming otherwise. No way I drank so much and didn't make a fool of myself."

"No, you were pretty, uh, tame," I say through clenched teeth. "You can ask Bree, she'll tell you the truth. The only thing you're guilty of is being a happy drunk."

Damon snorts. "Me, a happy drunk? There's no way."

I think to last night and realize I can't picture a time when Damon wasn't smiling…or when his hands weren't touching my arm, leg, or back. Gosh, did it feel good to have his hands on me. "I swear on my life, you were so happy, Bree said she was going to call you Smiling Salvatore."

Damon's quiet for a minute. "Well, I _was_ with my two favorite gals. I guess that's a good reason to be happy."

I didn't think it was possible, but the shattered pieces of my heart splinter into even smaller pieces at his words. I love him so much. "I'm glad that you're happy, Damon," I murmur.

"Me too." I can practically hear him smile across the phone. "What are you up to now? It's your last day in Atlanta, we should do something fun once my head stops spinning."

My heart skips at his proposition, but I tamper down my excitement. I can't spend the day with Damon. If I do, I'll either have to act like everything's normal or I'll have to tell him that I dropped his class. I'm definitely not ready to give him that news, and my stomach revolts at the thought of pretending like we're okay and that I didn't blow our relationship to smithereens last night. No, I need to stay away from Damon until tonight, until I have some time to clear my head and figure out what exactly needs to be said.

"Oh man, I wish I could," I say with unfeigned regret in my voice, "but I'm going to be really swamped the rest of the day."

"Oh yeah? Doing what?"

The lack of suspicion in Damon's voice makes me want to hurl with guilt. I scramble to name tasks that could reasonably consume the remainder of my day. "Like packing, and cleaning the apartment, and, uh, figuring out tonight's song list. Like I said, totally swamped."

"Sounds riveting," Damon laughs. "You know, if you want I could help you be less swamped. I happen to be an expert at cleaning. It's almost embarrassing how much my dishes sparkle"

_Damn it Damon, stop being so goddamn adorable. I don't deserve it!_ "Thanks for the offer, but I think I've got the whole cleaning thing under control. I've also got to, uh, grab some stuff from Walmart for the flight. It'll probably take all day." Gosh, could my voice _sound_ any phonier? He's going to call me out on my excuses any second now.

"Okay…" He drawls the word. "Well, what time are you heading to the party? I could swing by and pick you up on my way there."

I am going to hate myself even more than I already do before this night is over. "I'm not really sure. I think I'm going to show up earlier because I'll be performing. Get my lay of the land and all that."

"Damn." Damon sounds genuinely disappointed. "Well, I guess I'll see you there."

"I'll be the one at the piano," I joke, immediately facepalming myself after the words leave my mouth. Seriously, who says stuff like this?

I can practically hear Damon smirk through the phone. "I'll be the best-looking guy in a suit. Shouldn't be too hard to find me."

_Don't I know it_. If I wasn't already sitting on my bed, my knees would buckle at the thought of Damon dressed in semi-formal wear – hot damn, did he look good at the 1940s dance. "See you tonight, Damon."

I press End Call and fall on my bed with a loud sigh of relief. Even though I sounded like an utter idiot the entire conversation, I still bought myself more time in Damon's good graces. Surely seven hours is enough time for me to grow a pair and stop channeling the Cowardly Lion.

It's not.

Seven hours later, I watch members of the U of A History department and their companions meander into the Vonne Lounge. I'm seated at a pristine baby grand piano in the corner of the dimly lit, modernized speakeasy. Pendant lamps hang from the exposed beam ceilings. Red leather stools sit in front of the black and white striped bar; their companion chairs are placed around the dozen or so tables that outline the small dance floor. Blood-red stage curtains and gold details add to the opulent feel of this space.

As I play 'Winter Wonderland' from memory, I note how nice everyone looks in their fancy clothes. The women look beautiful in their distinguished cocktail dresses, and most of the men wear dark suits and Christmas-themed ties. One of them even blinks 'Ho Ho Ho' in rapid succession. I wonder if Blinking Tie Man simply has a great sense of humor or if he was coerced into wearing the offending tie by a persuasive partner.

I glance down at my knee-length dress and pumps. Not to brag, but I look _slamming_. I feel like an incarnation of Aphrodite in this nude dress. It has a sheer overlay adorned in intricate, metal-colored beading that makes my olive skin look tanner than it naturally is, and my back is completely exposed save for two tiny straps that extend from the halter around my neck to either side of the dress beneath my arms. Sure, this dress isn't exactly appropriate to wear to a school-sponsored party where I have to interact with a bunch of older academics. I originally planned to wear something subdued, but when I stepped out of the shower I remembered Caroline's advice to me from a year ago that I should never dress like a slob in public because I feel like crap. Self-loathing's eaten me alive all day, but am I going to let the entire History department know that? Absolutely not. No, I will look inappropriately gorgeous in my former New Year's Eve dress, curled hair, and dark red lipstick. I will take a page out of Caroline's book and use these items as my armor against any other wrongs I can bring onto myself.

As I glide my way through 'I'd Like You for Christmas', the air hums around me. It's uncanny how I know without looking up that Damon's entered the room. My face flushes at the thought of him seeing me in something so fancy. With the exception of Halloween and the 1940s dance, Damon's only seen me in my standard concert tee, jeans, and Chucks attire. I always hated chick flicks that required the mousy girl to dress up for the dolt guy to realize how beautiful she was the entire time, but now that I'm in a similar situation, I'm frustratingly curious to see Damon's reaction to me in these clothes. He always calls me Pretty Elena. I wonder if he'll think I'm pretty tonight.

As I scan the room, it's a relief to know that I won't run into Dr. Pierce tonight. A group of people schmooze near the bar as several others make their way to the buffet. Alaric and Meredith chat with the Asian-American history professor and his wife; Meredith meets my eyes and smiles at me. I return it and quickly look away. Meredith's a nice girl, but she's not who I want to see. I want to see...

_Him_.

My fingers stutter as I watch Damon walk into the room. He wasn't kidding when he said he'd be the best-dressed person in a suit. My body warms at the mere sight of him. How is it possible for one man to look so sinful in a gray dress shirt, fitted black slacks, and a matching jacket? Does he have any clue how his white pocket square begs me to disappear with him for hours and use it to wipe my lipstick prints off his body? My thighs clench at the thought.

Damon's eyes dart around the room. My breath hitches when he starts to look in my direction, but he's accosted by Dr. Mallite and his wife. I quietly snarl when I notice her eyes appreciatively roaming up Damon's body.

Married lady, you do _not_ get to ogle _my_ man.

_Elena, you have no right to call Damon your man. Get a grip._

Right. Commence getting a grip. I force myself to focus on playing 'I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm' when the air around me shifts once more. Flames lick my blood. Damon's looking at me. I feel it. My head turns, and my eyes immediately connect to twin pools of crystal blue. Sparks shoot down my spine as Damon's eyes drift down my body, scalding every inch of my flesh with the heat of his desirous stare. The way he lingers on my back causes fire to flow through me like warm honey. He strides towards me with undisguised yearning on his face, and it's all I can do to keep my fingers from wobbling on the keys.

"You're beautiful."

My heart swells at how much sincerity he embeds in those two words. "And you're being generous."

"No, I was generous when I told Mrs. Mallite that her dress looks exquisite when it actually looks like it was made from Stefan's old drapes." He sits next to me on the bench. "Trust me, Elena. You're beautiful."

I smile at his compliment. "You look great, too."

"It's the pocket square, right?" He grins at me. "Ladies love the pocket square."

My face flushes as I recall my earlier thoughts about how I'd like to use that pocket square. "It's a nice touch," I agree. "Adds a whole other level of swag to the suit."

His eyes glow. "I'm the Fearless Leader, Elena. Of course I've got swag."

And just like that, the joy I felt in seeing Damon deflates. Yes, now would be the second opportune moment of the day to tell him that I dropped his class, but he just got to the party. I can't ruin his night within the first hour. I'll tell him what I've done...just not yet.

I decide to change the subject. "Do you remember anything else from last night?"

Damon shakes his head. "Sometimes I get a flash of something, but there's nothing distinctive about the images." He offers me a sheepish smile. "It's probably for the best, right?"

I batten down my rising tears. _It's a good thing he doesn't remember kissing you, Elena. You don't want to deal with that can of worms. _"Probably."

Damon stays with me as I tinker through another song. I look down at the piano keys, but I feel his gaze on me. It makes my nerves feel like a bundle of live wires. I glance over and meet his wary eyes. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know." He frowns. "You seem off tonight."

_Don't. Panic._ "Off how?"My voice sounds an octave higher than it usually does.

"Well, there's the fact that your voice just sounded like mine did when I was thirteen." He studies my face. "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

"Nothing happened." I force a smile on my face. "I'm fine."

Damon scowls at me. "Say it without that forced smile." His glare grows when my shoulders slump. "I can read you like a book, Elena Gilbert. You've acted weird since we talked on the phone this morning. Out with it."

_Don't be a coward, Elena._

I take a deep breath and start playing Beethoven's 'Fur Elise' to calm myself. I see Damon's expression soften out of the corner of my eye. "Damon, I did something—"

"—Damon Salvatore, my man!"

I look up and see Dante Porter, the department's expert on African history, waddle towards us in one of his trademark pinstripe suits. Damon grumbles under his breath as he stands up to shake his head. "Good to see you, man. Where's Cecily?"

"Oh, she's having fun over there with her lady friends." Dr. Porter chuckles in a baritone voice. He looks at me. "You are one heck of a piano player, young lady."

I smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Elena's remarkable," Damon adds. "She's going to be my TA next semester."

That banging noise I hear? That's the sound of nails driving me into my coffin.

"Well, you are a lucky man to be able to work with someone so very talented," Dr. Porter says, clapping Damon on the shoulder. "Don't you take this young lady for granted."

"Never." Damon grins at me. "I'm extremely fortunate to have Elena in my life."

And now I'm being buried alive. My chest constricts with each passing second. Is this how a collapsed lung feels? I can't imagine feeling more suffocated than I do right now.

"I can see that," Dr. Porter says. "I hate to steal you away from her, but some of the other teachers and I got into a little debate about the Civil War, and we need you to tell us who won."

"Already talking shop at the holiday party?" Damon clucks his tongue. "Shame on you, Dante."

Dr. Porter winks at me. "I'll buy you a bottle of good scotch if you name me the winner."

"Make it a bottle of good bourbon and we'll talk. I'll be right there." As soon as Dr. Porter walks out of earshot, Damon huffs. "Sorry about this, Elena."

"Duty calls," I tease.

Damon rolls his eyes. "I'll be gone three, maybe five minutes tops, and I want answers the second I come back here. You're not getting out of telling me what's wrong, pretty miss."

I spend the next five minutes mentally reassuring myself that everything's going to be okay, that even though Damon will probably be mad at me when I first confess what I've done, he'll eventually understand my reasons for dropping his class and won't spend the rest of his life hating me. The ticks of the antique clock near the piano seem to grow more ominous as the five-minute mark nears; my stomach's in my throat when it finally arrives. I hold my breath as Damon says his goodbyes and starts walking towards me…only to release it when he's intercepted by another professor before he reaches the stage.

Apparently Damon and I are the History department's hot commodities, because the next two hours pass in a similar fashion. Damon attempts to return to me no less than eight times, but someone always wants to talk to either or the both of us. If I'm alone at the piano, he's commandeered by friendly coworkers, and the second he manages to escape from them, people approach me and want to talk about my thesis or make song requests. Part of me's grateful for all of these interruptions, but the other half of me is a piano-playing ball of tension who wants to rip off this metaphorical Band-Aid ASAP. When the party winds down to its last thirty minutes, Damon speed-walks to the stage and plops himself on the piano bench.

"My God," he grumbles. "How did five minutes turn into two hours?"

"You're just so popular," I tease in spite of the growing knot in my stomach.

Damon snorts. "Lucky me." His disgruntled expression turns to one of remorse. "I'm sorry I had to play nice with my coworkers instead of spend time with you."

"You don't have to apologize, Damon. I understand."

"I know you do, but I also know that something's bugging you." He places his hand on the bench and brushes my bare leg with his finger. "Whatever happened can't be that bad, and if it is, we'll fix it together. Now out with it."

I gulp. Here goes everything. "Damon, I dropped—"

"Is now a bad time?"

Damon and I look up into the ruddy face of Professor Angus Gruuger. Effing great, now I have to keep it cool in front of the Chair of the History department. I plaster a smile on my face. "Professor Gruuger, it's good to see you."

"And you as well, my dear, and you as well." He takes a large gulp of what smells like mulled wine. I wonder if I can talk the Vonne Lounge staff into sneaking me a keg of the stuff at the end of the night – I'm going to need it.

Damon stands and shakes Professor Gruuger's hand. "Great party, Angus. Good way to close out the year."

"It's always nice to get everyone together around the holidays. I like to think of this department as one big, dysfunctional family." Professor Gruuger shakes his head as he watches my fingers dance across the piano keys. "You make playing that thing look easy."

I smile. "Thank you, sir."

"I never had an ounce of musical talent. Can't even whistle. Sure do appreciate a fine musician, though," Professor Gruuger laments. He looks at Damon. "What's your musical background, son?"

Damon's sigh is barely intelligible. "Have you heard of Stefan Salvatore?"

Professor Gruuger's forehead wrinkles. "Isn't he the boy who graduated with a doctorate from the Peabody Conservatory when he was eleven and went on to be a guest performer in the globe's best orchestras?"

"That's my brother."

"Well, it's no wonder you're teaching a class on music next semester! You've got the knack for it in your blood!" Professor Gruuger claps a tight-lipped Damon on the back. "I must say, I was nervous when I looked at next semester's courses this morning and saw that you're teaching such an atypical class by yourself, but I have complete confidence in you my boy, complete confidence indeed."

Shit.

My fingers falter, causing a discordant note to clang from the piano. The entire room quiets at my mishap and looks at us. I pretend that nothing's wrong and continue where I stopped, but my hands are shaking so badly that I can barely press the correct keys. Professor Gruuger's about to out me to Damon in front of all these people. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. I was supposed to tell Damon before anyone else could because that's what you do when you love someone, you're honest with them, you consider their feelings before your own, you try to spare them from situations that are going to hurt them.

Damon gives me a funny look before turning to Professor Gruuger with a confused expression. "I'd hardly say I'm teaching the class by myself. Elena's graciously agreed to be my TA." He smiles at me. I try to return it but my mouth weighs down with guilt. It hurts to look at Damon and know that he's about to have a huge bombshell dropped on him. I have to look away. I have to keep playing. Can't draw any more attention to ourselves than we're already going to receive.

I hear a slight scratching noise as Professor Gruuger rubs his mustache. "There must be some mistake. As of this morning, Elena wasn't listed as a member of your class."

"That doesn't make sense." Damon's stare burns the back of my head. "Elena was on my course roster when I checked it yesterday afternoon. She signed the TA paperwork in front of me. Why isn't she enrolled in the class?"

Now _both_ of their stares are fixed to my head. I wish I could ignore them but I can't; they're talking about me and standing next to me and I can't just pretend like I don't hear them. I tense when Damon sits next to me on the piano bench.

"Any clue what's going on, Elena?" He tries to sound casual, but there's a desperate edge to his voice. He's no fool. He knows my sudden disenrollment in his class is no accident. He knows something's wrong but he doesn't know that something is, and I know I owe him the full story but I can't tell it in front of Professor Gruuger, so I have to settle for a half-assed version of the truth.

_Say goodbye to life as you know it, Elena_. "I decided to drop your class last night...for personal reasons."

Damon doesn't say anything. He doesn't cause a scene. He just sits on the piano bench and blinks at me as if I shot him with a stun gun. He tries to appear impassive, but his eyes betray him with a tempest of emotions. The muscles in his face clench and crease his forehead. Each second that he doesn't speak feels like a year of torture, and I silently beg him to give me some relief, to say something, yell, scream, cause a scene, anything at all just so I can hear his voice.

"Ah, well that clears up that issue," Professor Gruuger says, completely oblivious to the underlying tension between Damon and myself. "I'm going to pop off to bid my farewells to some people, but I'll be right back to learn more about this class."

He leaves us, but Damon's still silent. Tears spring to my eyes as I struggle to play the simplest melodies. My throat's raw from restrained sobs. "Damon, I—"

"—personal reasons, Elena?" His voice is pure ice. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

I cast my eyes down. "I didn't want you to find out this way."

"What, you didn't want to tell me to my face that you're the next in a long line of people to abandon me?" His terse laugh is cold enough to freeze blood. "I thought I was done dealing with people who treat me like shit when Katherine left the picture, but this? This is low, even by her standards."

My heart crumbles hearing the love of my life compare me to his crazy ex-girlfriend. "Please let me explain," I beg. "You can hate me all you want, but please give me a chance to explain everything."

"Save it, Elena." He stands so fast that the piano bench squeaks. "Your words mean nothing to me."

Tears flow down my cheeks. "Don't go, Damon. Not like this."

He storms off the stage without a backwards glance. My fingers still. No. He can't leave here thinking that I wanted to hurt him. I love him. I'd absorb his pain if I could because I never want him to hurt, least of all by my hands. I want to run after him, but doing so would cause a bigger scene than either of us want, so I need to think of some way to stall Damon without actually going to him. I watch Damon stride towards the lounge exit and frantically rack my brain for options, and just when I'm about to lose hope an idea pops into my head that's so cliché, so embarrassingly Glee, but it just might work. I tug the microphone next to the piano towards my face, close my eyes, and channel the spirit of Judy Garland before opening my mouth to sing.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
><em>Let your heart be light<em>  
><em>Next year all our troubles will be out of sight<em>

My honeyed voice, rich and sweet and dripping with soul, fills the cozy space with unadorned longing. My eyes flutter open and scan the twenty or so remaining party goers to see if Damon's one of them. I'm so relieved when I eventually spot him leaning against the back wall. He's wearing his coat and he still looks mad as hell, but his icy eyes lock with mine. The fact that he's still here gives me courage to continue to the next verse.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas_  
><em>Make the yuletide gay<em>  
><em>Next year all our troubles will be miles away<em>

_Next year, Damon__, _I silently plead to him_. __I did this so we have a chance of making it to next year. We wouldn't have made it otherwise, not after what happened last night. _My legs quiver beneath the piano. Singing in front of these people terrifies me, but I have to be brave because Damon's faith in me is at stake. His jaw is set and his arms are crossed and his body radiates with hurt, and I love him more than ever.

_Once again as in olden days_  
><em>Happy golden days of yore<em>  
><em>Faithful friends who were dear to us<em>  
><em>Will be near to us once more<em>

I entreat Damon with my eyes as I sing. _I am a faithful friend, Damon. I didn't betray you, I promise. I dropped your class to save you, to save us. Maybe I should have waited to do so until we talked about it together this afternoon, but I felt everything for you last night and I knew I had to act before I lost my nerve, before I convinced myself that I could continue to pretend that we're just friends. _There's no way he understands everything I just tried to convey, but the hard set of his face loosens, and some of the anger leaves his eyes as I sing. My throat tightens when I see indelible sadness replace that anger. I put it there. I made Damon miserable, and this last stanza's not going to help matters one bit.

_Someday soon we all will be together_  
><em>If the fates allow<em>  
><em>Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow<em>

Tears drip from my cheeks to the piano keys as I hold the last note as long as I can, infusing it with every ounce of sorrow and hope that dwells within me. The gasps of the audience quickly turn into raucous applause that continues for a good ten seconds after I release the note. I force myself to look at Damon. His face glistens with unabashed tears, which only makes mine flow faster. We're both quivering messes on opposite ends of the room, and it takes me those seconds to calm down long enough to sing the song's last line.

_So have yourself a merry little Christmas now_

I think I receive a standing ovation, but I don't care about that. I can't tear my glance away from Damon's watery eyes and the misery that dwells within them. My hopes raise when he takes a step towards me.

_They shatter when he shakes his head, spins on his heel, and walks out of the Vonne Lounge._

I pull myself together long enough to accept Professor Gruuger's compliments. Normally I'd graciously accept his compliments about my talent, but not tonight. I need to find Damon. I need to talk to him. I wish everyone well, retrieve my trench from the coatroom, and run to the parking lot. Damon's Camaro isn't there. I wonder how much bourbon he has in his system and start freaking out at the thought of him getting into a booze and emotion-fueled accident. I'll never forgive myself if something happens to him. I whip out my phone.

_**Elena Gilbert: I'm so sorry. Please let me explain. Please let me know that you're safe.**_

I stare at my phone during the thirty minute bus ride to my apartment. Damon doesn't respond. I race up the stairs in the off-chance that he's waiting for me, but he isn't outside my door. I let myself in and kick my heels at the wall. I yank out the bobby pins that held my hair in place. They ping as they fall to the coffee table. I pace around my living room. Should I send Damon another text? Should I try to call him? He probably wants space right now, but I need to know that he's okay. What if he can't focus on driving and loses control of his car? Visions of his mangled body on the side of a back road flash in my mind, and I choke on a sob. The horrific image goads me to send him another message.

_**Elena Gilbert: Please, Damon. Just let me know that you're safe. **_

When he doesn't respond after a minute, I race to my room. I need to calm down. Music will calm me down. I grab my laptop out of my carryon bag and bring it to the living room. When it powers on, I open my iTunes and place my music on Shuffle. I don't want to choose what songs play, I just need them to calm me down until I hear from Damon. I settle on my couch and wipe the mascara streaks off my face. I stand and walk around the room. Ten, twenty, thirty minutes pass, and then it's 11:00 and Damon hasn't responded to either of the texts I sent him and I'm debating whether or not to call him when a knock sounds on my door.

My heart stops. It has to be him, right? Everyone else in Donovan's Band is already gone, and few others know where I live in Atlanta.

Another set of knocks.

I hesitantly pad to the door. If whoever's on the other side isn't Damon, I'm going to be crushed. I take a deep breath, unlock the latch, and open the door.

Damon stands in front of me looking more haggard than ever. His jacket's missing and the top buttons of his now-rumpled shirt are undone. He looks at me with bloodshot eyes. The rest of his face gleams with tear residue. I reach to brush an errant tear from his cheek, but my hand recoils at the last moment. My body screams for me to run into his arms and reassure him of my good intentions, reassure him that everything's going to be alright, but he looks so resigned that I know my gesture wouldn't be well-received.

"You're here," I murmur. I can barely believe it. He looks like he can barely believe it.

He exhales and runs a shaky hand through his unruly hair. "You did this because of last night."

It's posed as a statement, not a question. I nod. Not the most intelligent response, but I'm just so relieved that Damon's alive.

He clears his throat. "I finally remember what happened, Elena"

My eyes widen. "How much do you remember?" I brace myself for his response, terrified that whatever he says is going to destroy us for good.

Damon's throat bobs. "I remember everything."

* * *

><p><strong>Hold onto your hats, readers. The next chapter will continue exactly where this one left off, and it's going to be one heck of a wild ride - brace yourselves! Thanks to everyone for continuing to follow and support this story. <strong>**I consider myself extremely fortunate to be part of such a supportive fan fiction community.****You're the best!**

**Twitter: jazzywritingAmy**


	47. Chapter 47

"_I remember everything._"

I try to ignore the alarms that ring in my head at Damon's confession, to not let on that my muscles feel radioactive with anxiety or that I'm breathing as if I just sprinted a marathon or that my heart's drumming against my ribcage harder than a Neil Peart solo. My brain's freaking out as much as my body. Does Damon really remember everything from last night? Does he remember getting handsy with me at Bree's Bar? Does he remember making out with my neck and asking me to stay the night?

Does he regret doing those things?

What if Damon thinks that _I _regret that he did those things? Does he think that I dropped our class because I'm repulsed by his actions and don't want anything to do with him? What if the only reason he's at my apartment right now is to tell me that he's going to respect my wishes and that I'll never see him again after tonight?

I think I'm going to puke.

"Elena?"

Damon's voice yanks me from my thoughts. He watches me with bloodshot-blue eyes. Pangs of misery stab me with invisible knives, snarling in my ear that if I really loved Damon, I wouldn't have gone behind his back and made such an important decision about us without discussing it with him first. They hiss that I betrayed him, that I'm the reason he looks so ruined, that I'm no better for him than Dr. Pierce. My stomach clenches as these thoughts burrow in my head and prey on my insecurities. I reassure myself that I'm not a horrible person, that I backed out of my and Damon's class for honorable reasons. I refuse to let my inner demons rob me of that knowledge. Instead of wallowing, I need to take advantage of the fact that Damon's here with me and set the record straight.

I step back from the door. "Would you like to come in?"

Damon nods and walks to the other side of my living room. I close the door behind him and follow him halfway to the couch. We stare at each other from opposite ends of the room. I wait to see if he's going to speak first, but he just looks at me with an inscrutable expression. I guess I'm the one who gets to break the ice.

My fingers twist around each other. "Can I get you anything to drink?"

Damon shakes his head. I realize that him not wanting anything to drink should by no means be considered a rejection, but that awareness doesn't prevent me from feeling like he's kicked me to the curb.

We continue watching each other from our opposing corners until the crushing quiet makes me want to burst. "So…"

"So…" he echoes.

I tap into my reserves of courage. Here goes everything. "You remember last night."

Damon's jaw clenches. "Yes."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?" When Damon's eyes narrow, I realize that I've offended him with my doubt. "It's not that I don't believe you. Well, I believe that _you_ believe you remember everything that happened last night, but a lot happened last night, and you didn't remember any of it until sometime within this past hour, so I'm just trying to make sure that our memories of last night align with each other and that you actually do remember everything that happened."

Damon's gaze lingers on me for a moment before he looks away and starts pacing in front of the kitchen entryway. "I couldn't drive away from here because my car smells like you."

My eyes widen. "What?" Of all the things I expected Damon to say, that sentence was _not_ one of them.

Damon continues to tread across my carpet. "You know your voice is lethal, right?" He stops walking and looks at me, resuming his pacing when I shake my head. "It's no wonder you don't sing in public. You're a goddamn reincarnated mythological Siren, luring people to emotional shipwreck the moment you open your mouth. It's like you ripped into my chest and squeezed my heart and found a new way to control me. Well, fuck it if I was going to let you tempt me further after you dropped our class and didn't tell me. I had to get away from you, so I bolted to my car and hit the road. I didn't care where I ended up as long as it was as far away from you as possible so you couldn't suck me back into your hold."

Damon's biting words shock me into silence. Anger rolls off him in waves, and I can't tell whether it's more directed at me or him. He seems equal parts furious with me for supposedly tempting and controlling him with my voice – I know I'm a good singer, but I didn't know I was _that_ good – and with himself for giving me this apparent power over him. I always thought that I was more affected by him than he was by me, so it's somewhat flattering to hear him compare me to a Siren…despite the fact that he probably means it as an insult.

"…I knew I was alone in my car, but I couldn't shake the feeling that you were with me." Damon's laugh resembles a grimace. "I kept looking at the passenger's seat because I'd convinced myself that you'd be next to me. I must have looked for you at least fifty times, and you were never there, and the disconnect screwed with my head so badly that I had to pull over. I couldn't focus on the road because I kept thinking about you. I turned off the car and sat in the cold and told myself to get a grip, that you weren't supposed to be with me, but I couldn't do that because your presence kept haunting my Camaro no matter what I told myself. I got such a bad headache trying to figure out why you wouldn't go away that I leaned back in my seat and pressed my face against the leather, and it smelled really girly, and I couldn't figure out why such a feminine smell was so oddly comforting. Something finally clicked in my head that what I smelt was sandalwood and apricots, and then I remembered that your lotion smells like sandalwood and apricots, and the reason it felt like you were in the car with me was because your scent lingered from when you drove us home from Bree's last night. As soon as I made that connection, I remembered asking you to 'take care of my baby' because 'I've never let anyone else drive her. You're the first. Numero uno. Pretty, special Elena.'"

Damon stops pacing and looks at me. "Once I recovered that first memory from last night, it didn't take long for me to recall the rest of them."

The sureness in Damon's voice makes me shiver. "And then you drove here."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Heat flares in Damon's eyes. "Because I want to know which of these recovered memories scared you so badly that you felt the need to drop our class before talking to me. Is it when we went to the jukebox and I told you to choose songs from your Naughty Things playlist? You picked songs by Buddy Guy, Duffy, and Screamin' Jay Hawkins, and you sounded so sexy when you hummed them against my cheek."

Damon takes a step towards me. "Is it when I told you to reach into my pocket to get my car keys? I wanted your hands on me so bad. I knew I was crossing a line, but I didn't care because your hands felt so good on me and I'd wanted you to touch me all night."

"Is it when we got to the boarding house and you helped me upstairs to my bedroom?" I feel like I'm about to combust as Damon takes another step towards me. "You were so patient with me. You took off my shoes and tucked me into bed and pushed my hair out of my eyes, and I felt like my heart was going to burst because no one's cared about me so much since Mom was alive."

And now I feel like _my_ heart's going to burst. I bite my lip to keep my tears at bay as Damon crosses the room and stops in front of me. He studies my face with eyes of blue fire. My skin feels ignited by his intense stare. "Damon, I—"

"Is it when I kissed you, Elena?" The low timbre of his voice rakes hot coals through my blood. "You looked so beautiful in my bedroom lamplight, and I knew I was a wreck but that didn't stop me from wanting you to stay because everything about my life is better when I'm around you. But then you got up to leave, and I panicked because you're about to leave me for three weeks and I don't want to be without you for that long. I wanted more time with you. I _needed_ more time with you. I thought I'd go crazy if you left, so I asked you to stay. I swear I just wanted to fall asleep next to you, but your neck was right there and I'm crazy about your neck, and I told myself I could stop after one kiss but I couldn't because I've wanted to kiss your neck since we woke up together in my office."

Damon's voice shakes as he takes my hands within his larger ones. "Is that why you dropped our class? Because I kissed your neck?"

I nod. Damon winces. "Was it that bad?" he asks, joking to mask his obvious hurt. "Did you hate it that much?"

"Of course not." I wrench my hands from his grasp and turn away from him to wipe the tears from my eyes.

"Elena, please." Damon grabs one of my arms and gently tugs me back to him. "Help me understand. Tell me what I can do to fix this."

"Nothing," I sniffle. I look at the floor, not wanting to see the distress in Damon's eyes grow at my words. "I'm actually really glad that this happened last night. It forced me to admit some things to myself that would have hurt us both if I didn't realize them before the start of next semester."

"You're _glad_ I drunkenly mauled your neck?" Damon repeats, his voice colored with disbelief. "Because it gave you the excuse to bow out of being my TA? Christ, Elena, how long have you planned this? Why'd you even agree to be my TA if there was a possibility that you'd drop our class at a moment's notice? You've left me in a real lurch, you know?"

"I know, and I'm so sorry," I insist. "I know that this screws things up in your lesson plans—"

"—_our_ lesson plans—"

"—but I _know_ you can teach this class by yourself," I finish. "You've learned so much about music since we met."

Damon doesn't say anything for a long moment. I chance a glance at his face and see him shaking his head at me. "Bullshit," he murmurs, padding his thumbs over the tops of my hands. "You can't believe that. This class is going to suck without you, Elena. Sure, I'm a good enough teacher that I can manage the history part of the class by myself just fine, but you and I both know that I know _nothing_ about music compared to you. Our students need you next semester."

I sigh. "I can't be your TA, Damon. They're your students now."

His lips press into a thin line of disapproval. "What exactly were you forced to admit when I kissed you, Elena? What would have hurt us so badly that the only way to prevent it was for you to drop our class?"

I don't give Damon an immediate answer because I'm too busy formulating an articulate response to his question. His forehead wrinkles as he waits for me to speak. His eyes suddenly grow big. "Shit." He blinks at me as if I just doused him with a bucket of ice water. "You think I won't be able to control myself around you in the classroom."

_Fifty percent correct, Damon_. "Well…"

"Damn it." Damon lifts his hands from mine and runs them through his hair. If I weren't so unnerved right now, his frenzied reaction would be adorable. "I feel like I just failed the biggest test of my career. Of course you'd think I can't control myself around you after last night. God, I'm such a fucking idiot."

He fixes me with a beseeching stare that makes my heart skip a beat. "Tell me what to do, Elena. Please let me fix this. I know I screwed up, but I promise I'll never touch you again if I can regain your trust that way."

Never being touched by Damon again? Never being held or kissed by him again? Dropping his class was only supposed to be a temporary solution to conquering my repressed want for him. We're only supposed to stay away from each other until I graduate in May – Damon knows that, right? I burst into tears at the thought of such a bleak future that's permanently without him.

Damon's features contort with panic. "Shit, Elena, please don't cry." He wraps me in his strong arms and murmurs soothing words in my ear. I cry harder into his dress shirt and leave tear stains on the gray fabric. It's not fair. How can our school have such a ridiculous policy that keeps us apart? Why should we have to choose between our careers and our personal lives?

Why do I have to be madly in love with someone I can't have for the next five months?

Damon leads us to the couch, holding me until my cries subside to sniffles. He leans forward and gently wipes my face with his shirt sleeve. I know that I can't continue to let him think his "screw-up" is the only reason I dropped our class. "Damon, I can't be your TA because I don't think I'll be able to act professionally around you in the classroom for an entire semester."

Silence fills the room, save for the faint music playing from my laptop. Damon studies my face. I'd normally feel discomforted by the intensity of his stare, but it feels so liberating to confess a small piece of the truth that I allow myself to hold his gaze. He opens and closes his mouth multiple times, almost as if the words he wants to say are too inadequate to address my confession. I grow nervous when he closes his eyes and sighs.

"I was really freaked out when you sounded weird on the phone this morning," he murmurs. "You sounded so distant. I thought you hated me, Elena."

The relief in his voice is so palpable, it's taking all of my strength to not launch myself into his arms. "I could never hate you, Damon. Not over something that I've thought about more times than I should admit."

He warily eyes me. "You've thought about us...doing stuff like that?"

I flush and look down. My heart feels like it's going to beat itself right out of my chest. "Yes."

Creases form on Damon's forehead. "And you dropped my class because these thoughts are bad?"

_Eloquence, don't fail me now._ "When we were at Bree's, she reminded me that when you care for someone more than yourself, you have to break your own heart to do the right thing and take care of the person you lo-like." Damon's eyebrow lifts at my stumble, but I continue before he can call me on it. "I didn't understand what she meant at the time, but later that night, when I waited for Matt to pick me up from your house, I kept trying to make sense of what Bree said and how it related to us."

Damon's eyes nervously scan mine. "Does it?"

I nod. "I kept thinking about why I chose to be your TA instead of the leader of that writing workshop. I tried telling myself that being a TA looks better on a resume, but we both know that's not true. I couldn't lie to myself anymore when you kissed my neck last night. I had to admit that the real reason I chose to be your TA was because it guaranteed me time with you, and I really like spending time with you."

"Why do you think I created a class on a subject that I know nothing about?" My stomach flutters when Damon laces his fingers through mine. "You're the best thing that's happened to me since I moved back to Atlanta, Elena. I wanted that guaranteed time with you. I knew I'd go crazy if I didn't get it. Teaching a class together seemed like a foolproof way to be with you."

"And maybe it would have been foolproof if we didn't already spend so much time together." I gently remove my hands from Damon's grasp. "But we go out of our way to see each other all the time, and I feel more and more comfortable with you the more time I spend with you...and the University of Atlanta doesn't want us to be so comfortable with each other."

"Yeah, but screw them," Damon says. "We're not doing anything wrong. It's not like I planned for you to be my best friend, but somehow you became the person I like more than anyone in the world. It's not a crime for us to hang out with each other. So what if we're so comfortable around each other that our relationship might seem unprofessional to someone who doesn't know us? We shouldn't be forced to stay away from each other just because I happen to be a professor and you happen to be a student."

I balk at how Damon's so willing to cling to that stubborn belief that we're above university policy. Granted, I foolishly clung to that same belief until last night, but now that I understand how Damon feels about me, I can't ignore the severity of our situation. No more wishful dreaming for Elena. "Dean Shane's already got his eye on us after that disaster with Dr. Pierce at the 1940s dance, Damon. We can't keep acting like the rules don't apply to us."

Damon fixes me with his stare. "What are you so scared of, Elena?"

"I told you, I'm scared that I'm going to get you fired because I can't be professional around you in the classroom!" A sudden rush of adrenaline causes me to leap from the couch and pace in front of it. "I'm crazy about you, Damon. I think about you all the time. You say that we're best friends, but what I feel for you is so much more than friendship. I'm scared that I've suppressed my feelings for you for so long that you're going to say something or do something next semester that's so perfect, my heart's going to overpower my head and I'm going to screw up and kiss you. But I'm not supposed to kiss you because you're my professor and I shouldn't want to kiss any of my professors, but I really want to kiss you because I love you and when you love someone, you want to kiss them all the time because you want your soul to touch theirs all the time. I'm scared that I'm going to have the urge to kiss you when we're in the classroom around a bunch of students, and I think I can restrain myself in front of a bunch of eighteen-year-olds, but they're really observant, and they love to gossip about their teachers, so all it'd take is one lingering glance or barely-appropriate brush of skin and they'd tell someone who's not as understanding about us as Matt or Alaric, and you'd get fired because really, how many times can the universe let us off the hook? I know that dropping our class without telling you was a really shitty thing to do, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for letting you down, but I had to do it because I would've screwed over your future if I didn't distance myself from you right now. I didn't want to do it, you have to believe me that it physically pained me to click that Drop button, but Bree reminded me that when you love someone, you put their needs before your own, and you need to not get fired more than you need me to be your TA."

"You love me?"

My eyes lock with Damon's. He stares at me with awe. Relief. Fiery passion that makes my bones tingle. I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff. I nod.

The fire in his eyes burns brighter. He cradles my face in his hands like I'm made of glass. "You love me." His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. He lingers on them. My skin flushes as he pads my cheeks with his thumbs, but when his eyes close and his mouth moves towards mine, I choke back a sob and step out of his grasp.

His eyes fly open. "Why are you backing away from me?"

I shake my head. "Because the fact that I love you doesn't change anything. It's not going to mean anything to Dean Shane when we're found out and fired and expelled."

"It changes everything, Elena!" he yells. "It means everything! I'm not going to let you martyr yourself for my sake. We're a team, Elena. There has to be another way."

"Then what is it, Damon?"

"I don't know, but this isn't it!" He cups my face again and stares at me with blatant desperation. "Do you remember when we avoided each other for a week? I never understood the meaning of hell on earth until I had to physically restrain myself from calling you when I found out that Father and Stefan are crashing my place for Christmas. What do you think is going to happen if we stay away from each other for the whole damn semester? What else is going to happen to us that will make us explode if we can't tell each other? How do you expect me to stay away from you if I know you're hurting? How can you tell me you love me and not let me be with you?"

A tear drips down my cheek and trickles over Damon's thumb. "Because I have to believe that we're going to make things better for ourselves by doing this."

Damon's hands drift to my shoulders. "Teach with me during the day and let me be with you at night," he begs. "We can have the best of both worlds. We'll be so professional during the day that no one on campus will know there's something deeper between us, and we'll spend nights together here or at the boarding house. Our friends will cover for us until you graduate and we can tell the world how crazy we are about each other and no one will be able to do anything about it."

"I can't," I whisper. "I won't. I won't let us be each other's dirty little secrets. I won't let us cheapen this thing between us by sneaking around and forcing our friends to lie for us. It's too risky. The fact that we'd have to keep our liaisons secret probably means that we shouldn't have them in the first place."

Damon's sigh sounds weighed by a lifetime of burdens. "I never meant to suggest that I'm ashamed of us or that I don't want to be seen with you in public. I want to be with you now, not in five months."

I sniffle. "I know."

We still in front of each other, our eyes downcast at our feet. I feel like there's so much left to say, but I can't speak for fear that the sobs I've restrained this entire time are going to pour from me faster than molten lava. Is this how Professor Salvatore and Miss Gilbert end 2012? Not with a bang, but with a resigned whimper of defeat by the system?

Damon's breath hitches. I look at him. His eyes are glued to my laptop. A slower version of an all-too familiar banjo introduction plays from the speakers and makes my heart swell far too much to fit in my body.

Damon's fingers curl around my waist and create a trail of sparks when they touch my bare skin. "Dance with me, Elena," he pleads. "If this is it for us and I don't get to see you until graduation, give me this one last dance. Please."

I know that dancing with Damon is a bad idea, that dancing with him to this song, one of _our_ songs, is going to shatter my heart into a million pieces of love and longing and regret for all the things I can't have with this man, but he's standing inches from me and he looks so good in his disheveled dress clothes and rumpled hair and perfect face, and I'm unable to deny myself one last stolen moment with him. I lean closer to Damon and let him pull me into his body. Our free hands interweave, and as I settle my head in the crook of his neck I take a shaky breath and instruct myself to focus on the music, not on how intoxicating he smells or the way his hand touches the exposed small of my back and shoots shivers up my spine or how he holds me to him like he'll never let me go.

_Well, you send my life a'whirling  
>Darling when you're twirling on the floor<br>And who cares about tomorrow?  
>What more is tomorrow than another day?<em>

_When you swept me away  
>Yeah, you swept me away<em>

I remember how Damon bought me tickets to the Dr. Dog concert last month to apologize to me for acting like an ass and how I insisted that he join me for his first adult music experience. I felt so giddy when Dr. Dog played this song, my all-time favorite song by The Avett Brothers, and I reached out for something and accidentally grabbed Damon's hand. We couldn't keep our eyes off each other for the rest of the song. I lift my head from his chest and see that he's watching me with a gaze that's a thousand times more intense than his one that night.

_I see the end of a rainbow  
>But what more is a rainbow than colors out of reach?<br>If you come down to my window  
>And I'll climb out my window and we'll get out of reach<em>

_When you swept me away  
>Yeah, you swept me away<em>

"I keep thinking about that concert we went to last month," he says. His fingers trace soft patterns on my open back that make me feel tightly coiled. "I was so freaked out that I shook the entire drive to the venue, but as soon as I saw you, I wanted to impress you so badly that nothing else mattered. Then I froze, and I wanted to feel sorry for myself, but you wouldn't have any of it. You kicked my ass to get me into that club, and I remember thinking to myself, 'I'll be brave enough to do anything if it means I get to spend time with this woman.'"

_You said with such honest feeling  
>But what'd you really mean when you said that I'm your man?<br>Well how my darling can it be  
>When you have never seen me and you never will again?<br>That you swept me away  
>Yeah, you swept me away<em>

"And then the band started playing this song, and you were so stoked that you grabbed my hand, and I realized that our hands were made to fit into each others," Damon continues, glancing to our interlinked fingers. "I thought it was a fluke when we woke up together in my office the morning after Halloween and your body fit perfectly against mine. Thought maybe I was just feeling things I shouldn't because I was pissed at Katherine for one thing or another, but when we held hands the night of the concert? It felt like my body recognized yours as my lost half. I've never felt that way about anyone, Elena. It scared the hell out of me to know that someone could make me feel so complete."

Life is ever changing  
>But I will always find a constant and comfort in your love<br>With your heart my soul is bound  
>And as we dance I know that heaven can be found<p>

My chest feels like it's about to explode at the sentimentality of Damon's words. Why does he keep saying such perfect things? Doesn't he know that he's tearing me apart? Doesn't he know that his confessions make me want him even more, that they break my heart even more because we can't be with each other right now?

I'm torn from my thoughts when I hear a low voice that's not part of the song. It's rich and raspy and a bit unsteady, but it's the purest, most heartfelt sound I've ever heard. I look at Damon. His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he shakily sings his way through the last verse of the song.

_Well, you send my life a'whirling  
>Darling when you're twirling on the floor<br>And who cares about tomorrow?  
>What more is tomorrow than another day?<br>When you swept me away  
>Yeah, you swept me away<br>Yeah, you swept me away_

My sight becomes blurry. My cheeks grow wet. My lips tremble and taste the saltiness of the tears that stain my face. The music stops playing, but I stay in Damon's arms. They shake, and I don't know why, and I look and see that he's crying too, that his eyes are even more bloodshot and his cheeks are red and he's looking at me like I'm it, I'm the one, and it's all too much for me to handle.

I step back. "Please go."

He closes the gap between us. "No, Elena, don't say that."

My voice wavers. "I'm sorry, but you really need to go." I wrench away from him and rush to the door, turning the locks and yanking it open so he has to leave because he can't stay here any longer, he can't stay in my apartment where he brought me food and made me a cure-all drink and watched rock docs with me when I was sick. He can't stay here when his mere presence reminds me of everything I love about him and everything I still can't have.

Damon's head droops. He trudges to the door. He stops in front of it and looks at me. "Merry Christmas, Elena." His eyes stay on mine for a moment before dropping to my lips once again. I shake my head because it's too much, he can't kiss me now, not when I'm so close to crumbling, not when it would ruin all the resolve I've built against his charms since last night, not when I love him so much and all I want is for him to kiss me.

"Merry Christmas, Damon."

His fingers touch my cheek. "I lo—"

He cuts himself off, but I know exactly what he was going to say. He has to go, because even if my saying those three words doesn't change a thing, him saying them changes everything, and nothing can change, nothing at all if we're going to make it to graduation with our positions intact. A muffled sob breaks through my lips, and he looks at me with such sorrow before walking out the door. I immediately close it and fall to the floor and hug my knees to my chest and break down.

Hardly any time passes before a knock sounds on the door. I try to ignore it, but his voice calls to me through the wood. "Elena, please. Not like this. Open the door."

Damon's right. Not like this. I slowly stand to my feet and wipe my face with the nearest tissue I can find and slowly open the door. He stands in front of me, his eyes just as wiped as mine, his face as flushed as mine, his heart as on his sleeve as mine, and he's perfect.

I grab the lapels of his shirt and yank him to me. I crush my mouth against his.

He's right.

This changes everything.

* * *

><p><strong>I am so appreciative for the patience and understanding the majority of you have shown me while you waited for this update. Special thanks to my Twitter friends for making me laugh and to Jenn (ElvishGrrl) for her words of encouragement and mad beta skillz. This chapter would not exist without your support.<br>**

**I post about my BIYE updating "schedule" ****(and my recent vacation, Doctor Who, and my love for late-90s boy bands****) ****on Twitter. Follow me at jazzywritingAmy if you'd like to stay in the loop about such things :)**

**Happy Wednesday!**


	48. Chapter 48

Damon returns my kiss with staggering greed. His mouth crashes into mine. Our tongues intertwine. I'm overwhelmed with the need to touch all of him at once. My hands clutch his arms before gripping his hair. His fingers race down my exposed back before they dig into my hips and pull me to him. We groan into each other's mouths, a guttural sound of reprieve that's been months in the making. I never knew how much I longed for Damon's kiss until this moment, this oasis in a semester-long trek through a desert of cautious restraint. He ignites my soul the way writing and music do. He turns my blood into liquid fire. Our lips devour each other like we're starved. We melt into each other, our bodies a living furnace of passion and flesh, and I have no clue where one of us ends and the other begins.

I want more.

My mouth stays fused to Damon as my hands slide to his shirt buttons. I slip the top one through the hole. Damon groans when my fingers skim his chest. My back slams against something hard; I realize he's pushed me into my apartment door. Damon's hips press me deeper into the wood panel. A whimper sounds from my mouth as he grinds against me. His hands travel a white-hot path up my body before interlinking our fingers above our heads. He slows our kisses, but they still pack the heat of an arsenal of fireworks. My bones are jellified when he tears his mouth from mine.

He touches our foreheads and looks at me. His eyes are blue fire, an inferno of bone-deep adulation. As I gasp for breath, a lightning bolt of realization hits me. We _kissed_. Damon didn't leave when I sent him away and we _kissed_. I should be freaking out right now. The voice in my head that's nagged me all semester saying "he's your professor" and "do the right thing" should be screaming at me that kissing Damon was a mistake, to send him home as if nothing happened, to continue denying us a physical connection that mirrors the strong emotional one we already share.

Those mental scoldings? I don't hear them.

Those feelings that I've done something wrong? They never surface.

Instead, I'm flooded with the certainty that Damon should be here with me. We were meant to kiss tonight. Our connection? It's _right_. Yes, University of Atlanta policy says otherwise, but Damon and I aren't looking to take advantage of each other. I love him and I know he loves me, even if I won't let him say it. This isn't a short-term fling; we're in this for the long haul. I don't know what our strategy's going to be for surviving next semester without each other, but for the first time since I acknowledged my love for Damon, I'm convinced that everything's going to work out in the end.

A smile blooms on my face. Damon looks surprised. He slowly returns it. "What are you thinking?"

I cradle our joined hands between our bodies. "I'm thinking how happy I am that you're here with me."

The surprise on Damon's face transforms into hope. "Really?"

I nod. "Really."

We grin at each other like a couple of loons. My heart swells at how Damon's presence feels more right by the minute. "Damon?"

"Yeah?"

A sudden wave of shyness washes over me. I press my lips to the tops of his hands as I consider what I'm about to ask him. Once I say these words, I'll have laid all my cards on the table. There'll be no turning back, no way to erase the implications of my request.

I'm okay with that.

My shyness goes away as quickly as it came. I look Damon in the eyes. "Will you stay?"

His response is immediate. "Yes."

Our lips seek each other once again. Everything turns to gold behind my closed eyes. My blood is filled with champagne-like bubbles that fizz and pop every time Damon nips at my skin. I suck his lower lip into my mouth and savor his taste, mint and bourbon and something that's purely him. He moans. I'm so turned on by his feral sounds that I challenge myself to provoke them from him the rest of the night.

We move across the living room and down the bedroom hallway, my mouth attached to some part of Damon's face the entire time. He sprouts goosebumps when I nibble at the hollow of his neck; I grow matching ones when he sucks at the flesh beneath my ear. His expert touch warms every cell in my body. His kisses drug me into blissful sedation, so much so that my eyes only flutter open when my legs bump into something soft and I realize that we're standing at the foot of my bed. It dawns on me that the man I love more than anyone – except maybe my brother – is in my bedroom, and there's no light but the moonlight that streams in beams through my window, and he's looking at me with so much reverent hunger that I feel his adoration from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes. His stare empowers me. I feel like I can do anything if he keeps looking at me like I've hung the moon, sun, and stars.

Damon's emotive gaze emboldens me to make the next move. I close the space between us. Our eyes stay locked as I slip his next shirt button through its hole. His breathing grows ragged. I open the next button and the one after that. He hisses when my fingers brush the new patch of exposed skin. I undo two more buttons and drop Damon's shirt to the floor. I step back.

My eyes feast on Damon's bare chest. He's classically handsome; his muscles toned but not bulky, his arms undeniably strong. I touch the faint lines on his stomach. He shudders. My hands take their time learning the rest of his cashmere skin. They run over the strong curves of his arms, the sinews of his chest and sides. Damon stays miraculously still during my explorations aside from the way his body trembles at my touch. His eyes darken when my fingers skim the sensitive flesh near his waistband. The look of arousal he shoots me stokes the heat between my legs.

"I want to see you," he says. I nod my assent. His eyes remain on mine as his hands glide from the tops of my shoulders, over my covered breasts, and linger at my waist. He undoes the button at my nape with one hand as he unzips my dress with the other. The rush of air against my skin makes me shiver. My body is a live wire as my dress falls to the floor, leaving me standing in front of Damon in nothing but a pair of panties.

He stares at me as if he's shell-shocked. "You're beautiful."

A flush blossoms over my body. I'm thrilled by the hunger in his eyes as he looks at me as if I'm the most coveted thing in his world. His hands glide over every inch of my skin and leave fiery trails in their wake. They settle on my breasts and gently squeeze; I whimper at the sharp sensation. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his breathing heavy as his mouth dips to press open-mouthed kisses to one, then the other. My hands fist in his hair as he suckles me, soft mewls escaping my mouth as his lips and teeth and tongue make the space between my legs coil with ache. My eyes close and I feel his hot mouth tease me into pliancy, feel his fingers snake to my hips and hook my panties and pull them down my legs.

I am completely bare, simultaneously vulnerable and dominant in my nudity. I step back to give Damon a better look. His eyes rake over me like hot coals. The sheer want that drips from them makes me feel powerful. I shove him onto my bed and swiftly remove the remainder of his clothes and stare at all of him because every inch of his body is glorious and I want to bring him so much pleasure.

I crawl up Damon's body and straddle him, relishing in the strength of his legs beneath mine. He stammers my name and yanks my mouth to his. Our tongues clash with each other in an intricate dance of want until the world spins and I'm on my back and he hovers above me with blue-fire eyes and passion-red lips. He tenderly captures my lips once more before traveling down my body, his hands and mouth scorching my breasts, stomach, inner thighs. He spreads my legs and sends me a look of stark thirst and then his mouth is right _there_ and one touch of his tongue and I'm surrendering all control to him. My eyes are heavy but they can't tear away from him because he's staring at me as he devours me like I'm his last meal and it's so erotic, the most erotic experience I've ever had in my life because it's with him. The tension between my legs grows unbearable as Damon and his divine mouth spur me to the edge of a towering cliff, closer and closer until I tumble over it, molten pleasure flooding my entire body as I cry out his name and see stars before collapsing back onto my bed.

As Damon makes his way up my body, he presses kisses to my skin that turn my blood into honeyed gold. His touch makes me feel boneless, weightless, invincible. When he reaches my mouth, I feel a sharp thrill at tasting myself on him.

He stares at me as if he's witnessed a miracle. "What did I do to deserve you?" he mutters, more to himself than to me. My hands shake as I brush his hair back from his face and wonder the same thing about myself.

"Elena." He breathes my name like it's a prayer. "Have me."

My throat clenches from the tenderness of Damon's plea. I ache so badly for him. "Yes."

His eyes bore into mine, his handsome face the only thing in my focus as he settles over me. He interlinks our fingers and kisses mine one at a time, each gentle press of his lips coaxing my body into startling awareness of his touch.

"Do we need protection?" he murmurs, nipping the pad of my thumb. I shake my head.

"I'm covered." My hips instinctively arch towards his. "Just you. Only you."

Damon nods. His eyes concentrate on mine. I lift my hips to his; he pushes forward. We gasp twin, jagged breaths as I take him in deep. Time stills at the instant of our union. There's only him, only us, only the complete fullness I feel with him buried inside of me. My fingers squeeze his as he shifts his hips. I clench around him when he dips to kiss me; he groans into my mouth. We move together, slowly at first, pleasurable waves pulsing through me. Our bodies grow slick with sweat as we pick up speed, my hips rising to meet him with each long stroke. We muffle our moans into each other's shoulders, sensation battering through every vessel in my body. I'm so close to the edge, so hot and slippery and desperate for him, faintly aware that we've pushed the covers from the bed, my pleasure growing claws that threatens to tear me to pieces until I shatter, muscles contracting around him, and I say that I love him because my love for him is my anchor in this heated moment. His thrusts grow erratic and he whispers my name, and he whispers it again and again before collapsing into my arms with a loud groan.

"Jesus." Damon pants to regain his breath. "That was…"

"Incredible," I finish with a wobbly voice. I'm floating back from the stars, the silvery thread of Damon's weight the only thing tethering me to the ground.

"Do you need me to move?" Damon asks into my throat.

I shake my head. "Not yet. Stay with me."

"Always," he murmurs. My heart twitters with love.

I wrap my arms around Damon's damp back and hold him to me, reveling in the simultaneous rise and fall of our chests as we stay joined to each other. He kisses my salty neck and strokes my hair. I feel precious in his arms.

When he slips out of me, he sighs and dusts his lips along my shoulder. "I'm going to clean myself up," he says between kisses. "Can I get you anything while I'm up? Water? Tissues?"

I shake my head, tickled by how attentive he is as a lover. "Just come back to me."

"As soon as possible," he promises, giving me a searing kiss full of promise before sliding off me and walking to my bathroom.

When Damon returns to my bedroom, he bends to gather the fallen blankets at the foot of my bed. My cheeks flush as I ogle his ass...and the rest of his body. I have to continually remind myself that he's a flesh-and-blood man, not a walking hunk of marble. You'd think I'd be more aware of this fact after I clutched his body to mine for the past hour, but I'm still flooded with awe every time I look at him. It's not just that he's the finest specimen of a man I've ever seen. It's the tenderness in his expression as he covers me with our thrown covers. It's the way he leans into my hand when I cup his face. The faint sigh that escapes his lips is so warm, it makes my heart swell with affection.

I scoot over so Damon can slip under the covers. I burrow into his open arms. My fingers draw idle patterns over his torso. I still marvel at how someone so toned has such soft skin. When a soft sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest, I giggle at the way the vibrations feel under my head.

Damon grins at me. "What's so funny?"

"You." I trace Led Zeppelin lyrics on his stomach. "You're purring at me."

"I am not."

He hums when my hand brushes the hollow of his neck. "Are so."

"Men don't purr, Elena," he boasts in a mock stoic voice.

I raise an eyebrow. "Really?"

My fingers continue their leisurely exploration of the impeccable terrain that is Damon Salvatore. I smirk when he tenses and presses his lips together. He can try to suppress his sounds all he wants, but I'll get him.

Thirty seconds later, a loud purr of approval radiates throughout Damon's body.

I burst into laughter, first at the way that Damon proved himself wrong – I simply nudged the process along – and then at the playful glare on his face. He's trying so hard to maintain his scowl, but the smile lines that crinkle around his eyes betray him. He flips on top of me and peppers my giggling face with kisses.

"You are _such_ an instigator," he teases between staccato kisses that make _me_ want to purr. "You know that, right?"

I widen my eyes to appear innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't."

Damon punctuates his last kiss with a popping noise before settling back onto my pillows. I replace my head on his chest and place my free hand over his heart. Its steady thump comforts me.

"So." Damon kisses my forehead before weaving our hands together. "Tell me about Christmas in the Gilbert house."

Years of memories flicker through my mind. "What do you want to know?"

"Tell me something that no one else knows."

I snuggle into Damon's side and consider his request. "When I was eight, my family had a chocolate lab named Ringo who ate everything he could find: dropped food, leaves—"

"Your homework?" Damon supplies with a grin.

"Yes, my geography homework! And Mrs. Tanaka sent me to timeout for lying to her when I said that Ringo ate it!" I chuckle. "Anyways, Ringo loved to eat things, and his favorite treats were cookies. Mom loved to make holiday food, so Jeremy and I came home from school to a fresh batch of Christmas cookies every day in December. Sometimes she waited for us so we could help her with the small stuff like leaving our thumbprints in the dough balls for the Thumbprint cookies or unwrapping Hershey Kisses and pressing them into peanut butter dough to make Peanut Blossoms. The house smelled like cinnamon sugar the entire month. I pretended that I was an elf in Santa's Workshop."

I feel Damon smile against my head. "How does Ringo factor into this story?"

"So my favorite Christmas cookie of all-time is a chewy almond cookie with white chocolate chips and cranberries mixed in the dough. We called them Christmas Valentines because they were white and red and made with love. One day when I came home from school, a fresh batch of Christmas Valentines was cooling in the kitchen. I only took two cookies to start, but they tasted so good that I couldn't stop, and before I knew it, I'd eaten all of the twelve Christmas Valentine cookies while Mom was on the phone in the other room and Jeremy was playing video games."

Damon snickers, spurring me to continue with the story. "Of course, as soon as I finish that twelfth cookie, I realize what I've done and I'm terrified that I'm going to get in trouble. As I'm stressing over what to do, Ringo comes in from outside through the doggy door and starts sniffing around for crumbs. I watch him sniff his way across our kitchen floor, and it hits me that it doesn't have to be my fault that these cookies disappeared. I threw the towel the cookies cooled on in front of the dog and snuck upstairs to my bedroom as if I was never in the kitchen. My heart pounded as I listened for Mom to get off the phone and walk into the kitchen. When she did, she started yelling at Ringo for being such a pig and yelled to Jer and me that the dog was banned from the kitchen for the rest of the month. To this day, no one besides you knows that I'm the reason there were no Christmas Valentines in 1996."

Damon exaggeratedly sighs. "Blaming things on the dog. Typical Gilbert move."

"The second Mom banned Ringo from the kitchen, I got so sick that I threw up all twelve of those Christmas Valentines in the upstairs bathroom," I admit. "I learned my lesson."

"Sounds like it." Damon presses a soft kiss to my head. "Does your family still bake a lot during the holidays?"

"Not as much as we did before my parents died. That year…it was rough." My throat clenches with unexpected emotion. "Jer and I weren't in the mood to celebrate anything. Aunt Jenna and Matt kept us busy with tree shopping and snowball fights and a trip to New York, but we weren't into it. I don't think we baked any Christmas cookies that year. We've baked a little more during the years since then, but definitely not as much as when Mom and Dad were around."

"When I was a kid, Mom and I made gingerbread men every year," Damon says. "She filled containers with chocolate chips and red licorice bits, and we'd spend the entire day decorating trays of dough people. The entire boarding house smelled like molasses and cloves. Every time I smell gingerbread, I always think of Christmas and Mom."

Damon looks at me. "Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if your parents hadn't died?"

"Sometimes I wonder if I would have gone to college closer to home if Mom and Dad were still around," I admit. "Or if I'd still be as passionate about writing and music if I didn't rely on them as crutches to get me through that first year without them."

"Or if I'd have healthy relationships with Father and Stefan if Mom was around to foster them," Damon adds.

"Or if everything that's happened to us still would have taken place," I offer.

Damon hums his assent.

"I guess all we can do is try to make the best of the hand we're dealt. Sure, I wish some things in my life would've gone differently, but all things considered?" I prop my head on my hand to get a better look at him. "I can't complain about how everything's turned out."

His eyes glow with warmth. "I'm glad to hear it." His expression softens. "Mom would have adored you. She loved positive people. Always said the world would be less serious if more people focused on the good things in their lives. When I had a bad day at school she'd always say, 'Topolino, to be upset over what you don't have is to waste what you do have.' The fact that you can't complain about your life in spite of your hardships reminds me of her so much."

He looks at me. "I wish you could have met her."

I didn't think I could love Damon more than I already do, but something about knowing Mrs. Salvatore would've liked me makes me feel even more attached to him. "Wherever she is, I'm sure she's really proud of you."

"I hope so."

Damon goes quiet. Unease replaces the fondness in his eyes. "Do you..." he starts before cutting himself off. Something about my open expression must prompt him to continue. "Do you think that your parents would've liked me?"

My answer is immediate. "Absolutely."

"And your aunt and brother...what about them?"

I snort at the thought of Aunt Jenna and Jeremy _not_ liking Damon. "Are you kidding me? Aunt Jenna works for a historical conservation society, so one story from you about the secrets of the Civil War and she'd be smitten. And Jeremy's a hybrid jock, artist, and stoner, so he's one of those guys who gets along with everyone. Don't worry, they'll be crazy about you if you ever meet them."

Damon frowns. "They're coming to your graduation in May, right?"

"I think so."

He searches my expression. His voice is soft when he speaks. "I'd really like to meet them...if it's okay with you."

That explosion I just heard? Pretty sure it's the sound of my heart bursting with excitement. Meeting my family? That's commitment. And Damon's not shying away from it. He wants to meet Aunt Jenna and Jeremy. He wants to know where I came from. Of course I want that to happen.

"I would love for you to meet my family," I say. He beams. I return it before I realize something. "Damon?"

"Hmm?"

I take a deep breath. "I know your relationship with your Dad and brother is more complicated than mine is with Aunt Jenna and Jeremy...but I'd really like it if I could meet your family too...someday...if it's okay with you."

Conflict fills his eyes. When he doesn't respond, I grow nervous waiting for his answer. It finally comes after a five-second eternity. "I've harbored so much anger towards them since Mom died. I kept telling myself that Stefan killed Mom and replaced me, that Father didn't want me anymore now that he had Stefan. And maybe that was true, but his bitterness over losing Mom wasn't Stefan's fault. I mean, Stefan was a baby and I rejected him. He didn't have to do anything; I resented him just because he was born. I told Father to take him back to the hospital because I didn't want a brother and clung to that mentality over the years. No matter how many times Stefan asked me for help or invited me to one of his concerts, I never responded because I wanted to make his life as miserable as I thought mine was."

"And now?" I gently prompt.

He hesitates. "The weekend I learned Father and Stefan were staying at the boarding house for Christmas, your band played Mumford & Son's 'Timshel'. The last line really got to me."

"But I can't move the mountains for you," I recite.

"Yeah. That lyric made me think about how timshel means 'thou mayest', how everyone has a choice to take the low or high road. Then I started thinking about choice and forgiveness and how I've chosen to stay bitter at Father and Stefan for all these years." Damon's voice wavers. "And as I was having these unwanted emotional thoughts, I looked up and saw you on the piano. That show was during that awful week that we tried to stay away from each other. I was so frustrated that I couldn't tell you everything, but in the haze of my aggravation, something clicked: I didn't have a lot of control over our situation, but I could do something to improve the piss-poor relationships I had with my father and brother. I couldn't wait around for someone to move my own mountains. I have to move them myself."

"That's a big realization," I say, secretly thrilled that I was the motivating factor for Damon to take control of his life.

"I'm still blown away by it." Damon shrugs. "I've struggled to accept that their visit might not be the end of the world the way it's been every other time the three of us have gotten together. This time, if I'm willing to try, things might actually improve between us. I'm not sure that we won't turn the boarding house into a pile of rubble by the end of the holiday, but I guess that'll be an unplanned side effect of the reconciliation process."

I nod. "You'll have to hire a good contractor."

Damon smiles for the first time since we started talking about his family. "Maybe you can help me." He shifts. "When are you coming back to Atlanta?"

"January 10th, I think."

Damon frowns. "I think Father and Stefan are leaving a week before then."

"Oh." I try not to sound too deflated that our paths won't cross.

"…but if we don't send each other to the hospital or wear out our voices from screaming at each other over the holiday, maybe I can persuade them to stick around long enough for you to get back in town."

The thrill I feel at the prospect of meeting Damon's family is mixed with guilt. "I don't want to inconvenience your Dad and brother. They probably have plans that week. It's okay, I can meet them another time."

"Elena." The amused exasperation in Damon's voice forces me to look at him. "I know you can meet them another time, but you're the indirect cause of this reunion. Father and Stefan are going to notice that I'm no longer the angry guy I've always been and when they ask me why, I'm going to tell them about the kickass woman who made me see the light about everything in my life. If anything, they'll be dying to meet you to thank you for setting the Salvatores on the right path again."

He touches my cheek. "It's no inconvenience to meet you, Elena Gilbert."

I pull Damon's face to mine and give him a searing kiss. He eagerly returns it, and before long the covers are discarded and I taste my way to the hardness between his legs and he alternates between stroking my hair and fisting the covers and gasping my name amongst curses and prayers. His eyes are bright when I pull away and sink on him. We take each other slowly, waves of pleasure lapping through my body, building with every whisper of how good I feel and how beautiful I look covered in moonbeams. I whimper his name and crash into him; he follows a second later and tugs me, panting, to his chest. We breathe as one and beat as one, the last sensation I'm aware of as he tugs a sheet over us and I slip into sleep in his arms.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to everyone for showing this story so much love. Seriously, your enthusiasm for BIYE continues to astound, flatter, and humble me. I am so grateful to you all for your support.<br>**

**I post about my BIYE updating "schedule" (and _The Originals_ pilot, my recent trip to Nashville, and my frustration that my new running shoes don't automatically transform me into an Olympic sprinter) on Twitter. Follow me at jazzywritingAmy if you'd like to be informed about such things :)  
><strong>


	49. Chapter 49

I stir at the sound of Damon's faint snores in my ear and the feel of his hand on my chest.

I stifle a giggle. Damon Salvatore, one of the most outwardly reserved people I know, is a sleep-fondler! And I've got to admit, I really like being sleep-fondled by him. With his naked body curled around mine and his elegant fingers cupping my breast...yep, I think I've stumbled upon the ideal way to start my day.

His arm loops over my midsection and pulls me into him. I snuggle into his warmth. I'm tempted to roll over and see if his sleep-face looks as innocent now as it did the morning after Halloween, but I don't want my motions to wake him, and let's face it, watching someone when they sleep has the potential for Edward Cullen levels of creepiness. Instead, I content myself in the protective cocoon of his arms and look around my room. My eyes drift from my filled bookcase to the framed vintage concert paraphernalia on my walls before settling on the discarded dress clothing at the foot of my bed. A wave of sentimentality washes over me. Last night was perfect. To describe my evening with Damon as anything other than perfect – in spite of its nonstop tears, angsty confessions, and how hokey the description "perfect" sounds after sleeping with someone – would undermine our time together.

My smile withers into a frown when I see my packed suitcase next to my bedroom door. A quick glance at my clock tells me I have two hours left with Damon before I have to go to the airport. I wish I could ask him to drive me there, but I don't want to risk anyone spotting us together off campus. The thought of UofA's stupid policy makes my thoughts grow stormy. I get one amazing night with Damon and have to keep my hands off him until the middle of May? How the hell is that fair?

_Assuming he still wants you then_.

My breath hitches at the ugly thought. Damon's still going to want to date me in five months, right? He wanted more from me than sex, I know he did. He had to. He wouldn't have shared so many of his secrets just to get me in bed. What if he ignores me when I come back to Atlanta at the end of break?

What if I'm no longer worth the wait?

"It's early. Stop thinking so hard."

I startle at the sudden sound of his voice. He chuckles, a low noise that makes desire pool in my stomach, and presses a soft kiss to my nape. His faint stubble scratches my cheek as he rests his head in the crook of my neck. "Morning."

"Morning."

He hugs me from behind and traces random patterns on my stomach, humming an unrecognizable tune. I smile in spite of the warring thoughts in my head. "Are you always so chipper in the morning?"

His stubble scrapes me as he shakes his head. "Never." He pauses. "But I'd bet that my unusually good mood has everything to do with you."

My heart swells at his compliment…and I find myself at a loss for words of my own. I choke on a laugh at the irony of the situation that I, Elena Gilbert the MFA candidate, am so muddled by my love for the man in my bed that everything I could respond with just sounds cheesy in my head. In fact, there's only one thing I can do that'll show Damon how much his comment means to me. I twist in his arms, feel a jolt when his sharp eyes lock with mine, and stretch my neck to kiss him.

I pull away as soon as our mouths touch. "I have morning breath."

"So do I." Damon's grin is playful. "Let's practice kissing now so we'll know what to do when we brush our teeth and have squeaky-clean breath."

I giggle as he lowers his face to mine. "Can't argue with that logic."

"I knew you'd understand," he says, and then his lips mold to mine, and my body feels like it's made of the molten wax in Aunt Jenna's Christmas-scented candles. I melt into Damon as he cradles my face in his hands. His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, their lulling rhythm matching the slow dance of our tongues. My hands slip to his back and marvel at the way his steel muscles flex under such smooth skin.

Damon's kisses grow more insistent. My skin speckles with goosebumps in spite of the way my fire-blood burns like an inferno. I instinctively arch into him. He groans. His hands dart from my face to my hair to my chest as if he wants to touch all of me at once, but his fingers settle on the sensitive nub between my legs and I'm floating, rising, soaring to celestial heights I didn't know existed. His fingers continue massaging my heat as he abruptly turns me so my backside touches every inch of his front. He lifts my leg atop his, leaving me completely open for him, and tension coils in my stomach and a low whimper slips from my mouth. I want more, all of Damon on this Christmas Eve morn, and just when I think I'm about to beg for him, he pushes into me and I groan because the way I feel every inch of him inside me, pressed against me, is nothing short of glorious.

He grunts an indistinguishable oath into my neck. The graze of his stubble and teeth make my blood spark. His hips move against mine and I gasp and he grits 'is this okay?' and all I can do is choke out a 'yes' because the way he makes me feel is so much more than okay, it's divine closeness to someone I recognize as my other half. He moves slowly, stopping at the end of each thrust to whisper how good I feel, how beautiful I look in the sunlight, how I make him feel whole, how he's never going to get enough of me. I absorb his words like sunshine because he brightens my soul. I reach down to cup him and I tell him this, and until now we've been taking our time but at my words his thrusts become more intentional, that deliriously perfect pressure rising within me with each forceful motion, and he kisses my neck and murmurs to me and I touch us where we're joined and feel everything at once and I cry out because my release unexpectedly slams into me. Damon gasps into my neck and interlinks our fingers and squeezes them as his hips erratically slap against mine once, twice, a third time.

Damon barely slips out of me before our sweat-slicked bodies collapse back onto my bed. I can barely distinguish my ragged breaths from his. He laughs, an airy sound, and pulls me on top of him.

"Goddamn, Elena." He kisses my forehead and tightens his arms around me. I nod and press a light kiss to his arm, still too out of breath to form words. I prop my chin on his chest and look at his face. The sunlight that shines through my window brightens his blue eyes, making them look as clear as the glass ornaments Mom used to collect. His hair is tousled from sleep and sex. He's breathtaking.

Those crystal eyes currently look at me with stark adoration. He tucks an escaped tendril behind my ear before touching my cheek. The reverence in his eyes shifts to awe as he surveys my face.

I feel self-conscious under his surveillance. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He looks amazed as he shakes his head. "For the first time in a long time, everything's going my way."

"Must feel good," I say, secretly pleased that I contributed to his good fortune.

Damon nods, but he's not as contented as he was before. His expression grows wary. He doesn't speak for several seconds before he looks at me. "I don't want to screw this up."

"Me neither." His raw honesty prompts me to be just as forthright. My heart pounds. "I want you, Damon…and a part of me is really scared that you won't want me when I return from winter break."

"What if you're the one who doesn't want me?"

I shake my head. "Impossible."

"Likewise." Damon kisses my fingertips. "I don't care if there are a ton of obstacles in our way that were designed to keep us apart. Whether or not you're in Atlanta, whether or not we have to abide by that stupid school policy, even if I have to stay away from you until you graduate to protect our standings at school…I don't care how long it'll take for us to be together. I'm going to wait for you as long as I have to because I don't want to be with anyone but you."

My cheeks ache from smiling so big. I don't care that I probably look like a deranged clown. Everything Damon just said to me? It's _real_. His expression is sincere, his voice is heartfelt. His interest in me isn't going to fade after we don't see each other for three weeks. I still don't want to leave him, but I'm no longer as worried about the undefined state of our relationship.

I beam at Damon. "Couldn't have said it better myself, handsome."

His grin mirrors mine. "Thank God. I stayed up all night to practice that speech."

I smack his chest. "You did not, you liar."

He snickers and traps my squirming arms in a hug. I pretend to resist, but let's be honest: it is not the worst thing in the world to be held to Damon's chest. I eventually slack on top of his chest, appreciating the way his body shakes with laughter.

He smirks at me. "There's no escaping me, Elena."

I smirk back at him. "What are you going to do about it?"

A devilish expression appears on his face. "I don't know, a bit of this," he nibbles along my collarbone, "and that," his teeth rake my earlobe, "and a lot of this," he concludes by rolling me beneath him and kissing me deeply. I smile against his lips. My grin disappears when I glance at my clock.

Damon's eyes narrow at the frown on my face. "What's wrong?"

I sigh. "My bus to the airport leaves in an hour."

"Oh." Damon's face falls. He tries to cover his disappointment with a cheeky grin. "Any chance of convincing you to stay in bed with me until five of?"

"I really, _really_ want to, but I can't," I lament. "It's silly, but I like to shower before I go to the airport."

"Trying to smell fresh for the plane ride?"

_I wish_. "More like planes make me anxious and I feel de-stressed after a shower."

His eyebrows waggle. "Want company?"

My face heats at the thought of all the "de-stressing" Damon and I can achieve in a shared shower. "If it's your company? Always."

I nudge Damon off me and slide out of bed. When I look back at him, his eyes are appreciatively bugging as they roam over my naked body. I love how desired I feel when he looks at me…and I make a mental note to thank Caroline for dragging me to all of those yoga sessions this semester. I grab my waterproof iPod and wink at him before sauntering out of the room. My mattress coils creak. I suppress a giggle at the sound of Damon's footsteps quickly following me into the bathroom.

He nods at my iPod. "Why'd you bring that in here?"

I gesture at the waterproof iHome on the bathroom countertop. "Matt and I listen to music when we shower."

"Separately, I hope," Damon mutters.

"Well, there was that one night where we got crazy drunk off buttershots…"

Damon's scowl relaxes when he sees my teasing expression. "You're cruel."

I stick my tongue out at him. "Yep."

He rolls his eyes before snatching my iPod. "How many songs do you have on here?"

"My entire iTunes library," I say as I turn on the water. "All twenty-thousand songs and one-hundred-plus playlists."

Damon whistles as he scrolls through the device. "You would have a 'Shower Songs' playlist. 'Rubber Ducky', Elena? Really?"

"I have a playlist for everything, Damon," I say. "Road trips, decades—"

"—'Naughty Things'?"

My eyes widen at the raw want that drips from Damon's voice. When I look at him, something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "I've wanted to get my hands on this playlist since you first told me about it at The Masquerade," he rasps. "I almost went mad every time I heard music from that point on, wondering if the songs I heard made it on that special playlist."

I try to stay calm despite the way his need-glazed eyes make me want to skip my flight and fuck him silly for the rest of the day. "I played some of the songs for you at Bree's."

"Not some, _three_ of the songs," he amends. "And those three songs were such a tease. You offered me a ten-minute glimpse into a forbidden part of your life. Listening to those songs only made me ache for you more than I already did because they reminded me that I wasn't allowed to have you."

I take my iPod from Damon and plug it into the iHome. "How'd you like a thirty-minute tease?"

His eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," I coyly say as I set the iHome alarm, "that I'd be willing to listen to this particular playlist for the thirty minutes I can afford to spend with you in the shower…but I don't want you to "ache" anymore than you already have."

Damon practically growls at me as he presses me into the bathroom counter with his hips. "Put on the damn playlist, Elena. Now."

I barely have time to press the Play button before Damon tugs me into the shower and backs me into the cold shower tiles. My squeal is drowned by his fierce kiss…and by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's driving guitar riff in 'Spread Your Love'.

_Spread your love like a fever  
>And don't you ever come down<br>Spread your love like a fever  
>And don't you ever come down<br>I spread my love like a fever  
>I ain't ever coming down<em>

"I expect to get clean during this shower, Professor Salvatore," I gasp between kisses.

Heat flares in Damon's eyes. He pushes strands of wet hair out of his face and licks his lips. His smirk is positively wicked.

"But Miss Gilbert," he says in a voice that's low and rough and dripping with sin, "We have to get dirty before we can get clean."

His mouth muffles my whimper.

_She gave me love like a big fire  
>I only saw it once<br>She spread her love like a fever  
>She's bad, but not enough<em>

His fingers dive between my legs for the second time today. My head rolls at his touch. I clutch his shoulders and fight to keep my eyes locked with his as tightening sensations streak through me. His gaze is lust-darkened, his fingers masters at driving me to the edge and back, and the pleasure I feel is so overwhelming that I come three minutes into the song.

I sag into Damon. "That felt amazing," I gasp. "I can't feel my legs. Are they still there?"

Damon chuckles. I feel the faint contact of his hands rubbing my thighs. "I take it you're starting to feel de-stressed?"

I choke out a laugh. "Just a bit."

"Just a bit?" he repeats with a joking pout on his face. "Guess that means I'll have to step up my game. I'm assuming you use Herbal Essences and not this Axe three-in-one stuff?"

I nod. He grabs the red bottle and squirts a dollop of shampoo in his hands. "Turn around and wet your hair."

I back into the shower spray and let the water cascade down my back. The song changes to The White Stripes' 'Ball and Biscuit'. I look at the pink shampoo blob in Damon's hands. "What are you going to do with that?"

He makes a spinning motion with his empty hand. "Wash your hair, of course."

I'm floored by such a simple gesture. I turn so the spray streams down my front. Damon stands close behind me and digs his fingers into my hair. I moan as he kneads my scalp.

_Let's have a ball and biscuit, sugar  
>And take our sweet little time about it<br>Let's have a ball and biscuit, sugar  
>And take our sweet little time about it<br>Tell everyone in this place just to get out  
>We'll get clean together<em>

"Christ, you have a lot of hair," he grumbles. "Is this why women take so long in the shower?"

"No, we just masturbate a lot," I deadpan. "Same reason it takes men twenty minutes to 'wash their hair'."

Damon smirks. "Nice."

I rinse out the shampoo bubbles. "UofA hosted a 1970s dance during senior year of undergrad. Bonnie, Caroline, and I decided to go as punk rockers. The three of us put so much hair cement, paste, and egg whites in my hair that I walked into the ballroom with a two-foot Mohawk. I was in the shower for two hours that night trying to wash that goop out."

Damon laughs while running conditioner through my hair. "Is it wrong that the thought of you with a Mohawk is a total turn-on?"

"I won't tell if you won't."

"Punk Elena." Damon takes an exaggerated breath and sighs. "Adding that mental image to my extensive collection of Mental Images of Elena Gilbert until you show me a picture."

"Caroline was involved, there are tons of pictures." I nudge Damon towards the shower spray and squeeze Matt's shampoo in my hands. "Your turn."

A primal noise of satisfaction rumbles from Damon's chest when my fingers lather his hair. He watches me work. "Do you think I'd look good with a Mohawk?"

"Let's see." I sculpt Damon's soapy hair to the middle of his head. He looks great. There's something about seeing him wear such a rebellious hairstyle that adds to my near-constant state of hot-and-bothered for him. "You should rock this look more often."

"Yeah?" Damon feels his hair. "Do I look like I'm on an Indiana Jones level of professor-gone-rogue badass?"

"Absolutely."

As Damon rinses his hair, the love theme from _True Blood_ starts to play. We quiet as the grand piano notes fill the bathroom. We maintain eye contact as he grabs my shower gel, squeezes it into our hands, and sets the bottle on the shower ledge. I'm consumed by the need to touch him. My every nerve is aware of his closeness.

We don't say anything as we step to each other and gently wash each other's bodies. My hands slip down Damon's torso and scrub the hard planes of his chest and stomach. His muscles tighten under my touch. His fingers skim across my breasts and down my arms. He kneels to wash my legs and feet. His fiery gaze makes me tremble. When he stands and backs me into the shower to rinse my legs, I hug him to me. My arms loop around his waist so I can wash his back. His hands linger on my bottom. There's nothing glaringly sexual about our motions, but the sensual charge of our actions makes the small space of the shower electric with mutual adoration. I shuffle us so he joins me under the showerhead. We quietly stand together under the warm spray, taking a moment to absorb each other through the emotional music.

As the song fades out and Muse's 'Supermassive Black Hole' fills the room, Damon's teeth graze my earlobe. "Did I clean you to your satisfaction, Elena?"

"You missed a spot," I tease. The way Damon effortlessly switches from being the sensitive lover to a dirty-talking fuck buddy turns me on more than I expected. I unflinchingly stare at him as I take his hand and place it between my legs. He smirks. His fingers begin to move, but I grab his hand and stop him mid-action. "No."

He raises an eyebrow. "How can I make sure you're clean if you won't let me touch you?"

The dirty funk guitar intro emboldens me. "Use your tongue."

A low groan escapes Damon's lips as he presses me back into the tile wall and sinks to his knees. He props my leg on the shower ledge. His warm breath settles over me. I close my eyes.

_Ooh baby, don't you know I suffer?  
>Ooh baby, can't you hear me moan?<br>You caught me under false pretenses  
>How long before you let me go?<em>

_Ooh, you set my soul alight  
>Ooh, you set my soul alight<em>

By the song's end three minutes later, I'm fisting Damon's hair and whimpering his name as my body quakes from the aftermath of Orgasm #3. The ominous guitar riff that opens The Beatles' 'I Want You (She's So Heavy)' bellows into the bathroom. The dragging weight of the notes makes the humid room seem sultry.

I want to lose all of my inhibitions. "Damon."

He nips at my inner thighs. "Hmm?"

"This song." I close my eyes. My chest rises and falls in time with the languorous notes. "It's the reason I made this playlist."

"Yeah?" Damon's lips travel up my body. "Have you ever…"

"Regretfully, no." But in this moment, I'm not regretful that I've never messed around to the sexiest song that exists. Every time I hear John Lennon growl his desperation for Yoko Ono, it does something to me. I feel primal. Uninhibited. I'm emboldened to make every one of my fantasies reality. I want to claw into someone and unleash all of my sexual urges.

_I want you  
>I want you so bad<em>

I yank Damon to his feet and shove him against the shower wall. I crush my mouth to his. His legs shake at the depth of our kiss. _Good_. I want to make him boneless. I'm going to rock his world so hard that he aches for me during all of winter break.

_I want you  
>I want you so bad<br>It's driving me mad, it's driving me mad_

I tear my mouth from Damon. He pants in my ear as I trace the lines of his neck with my tongue. His hands clench my hips. He tries to pull me into him, but I stand strong.

"Not yet," I command. He nods, gulps, and exhales slowly. His fingers dig into my flesh as I lick the water droplets from his chest. Part of me wants him to leave a mark that I can take to Mystic Falls. Part of me wants to do the same to him. My teeth gently clamp around his nipple. My tongue laves his reddened skin. He hisses. His fingers dig deeper.

Damon's cock prods my stomach. I squeeze it. He whimpers. My hand slowly works him until I sink to my knees and my mouth goads more sounds from him. His head lolls into the wall. His hands rest on my head.

_I want you  
>I want you so bad, babe<br>I want you  
>You know I want you so bad<br>It's driving me mad, it's driving me mad_

He twitches inside my mouth. His hands claw at the slick tiles. "Inside you," he begs, "let me be inside you."

_She's so heavy  
>Heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy<em>

I stand. Damon's tongue sweeps my mouth as he backs me into the tiled wall. "I can taste myself on you," he moans before deepening the kiss. "That's so…_God_, Elena, I need you."

"Need you too," I choke, overwhelmed by the music and the water and him, always him. I wrap one of my legs around his waist. My hands clench his shoulders. His knees dip, aligning him with my heat, and we look at each other, really look at each other, and his eyes are so bright with passion that they make my heart want to burst with it.

"I love you," I whisper. I capture his lips with mine before he has a chance to respond, and I gasp into his mouth because he pushes into me and I wonder if I'll ever feel as complete again as I do in this moment. We slowly rock into each other, and sometimes we kiss but we mostly just stare at each other because I'm addicted to the unrestrained reactions that flash across his face in the heat of the moment. He moans as he surges into me, pinning me to the shower wall with his hips over and over again, savage sounds tearing from his lips that make me strain to join with him as tightly as possible. The grueling guitars drive us forward, higher, deeper until the song's abrupt end and we clench and spasm into each other and my mouth opens and my eyes roll back into my head and I clutch Damon to me because he's the axis I revolve around and I crave his closeness like oxygen.

Damon opens and closes his mouth several times. "Wow."

I dumbly nod, barely registering that soft piano music now fills the room. "Yeah."

"Just…wow," Damon repeats. My facial muscles are too tired to smile at his incoherent response. We slump against each other. As my breathing slows to a normal rate, Adele's voice croons 'Make You Feel My Love'.

I don't know if Damon or I initiate it, but we sway to the music beneath the shower spray. I close my eyes and lean my head against his chest. His chin rests on the crown of my head. His arms tighten around my waist. One of his hands strokes my hair. It's a soothing gesture, and I snuggle deeper into his embrace as Adele echoes my inner sentiments that I could hold Damon for a million years just to make him feel my love.

We've come so far, Damon and I. I remember how we didn't like each other when we first met. Yes, I thought he was insanely hot, but I also thought that he was a closed-off jerk who hated my story for no good reason. He probably thought that I was a bratty musician who was only writing a historical fiction novel to get into Alaric's pants. If someone had told me back then that I'd start Christmas Eve 2012 romping in my shower with Damon, I'd have thought that person needed to lay off the shrooms.

Despite all of this semester's insanity, I wouldn't change a thing about it if I still got to be in this place with Damon.

I softly sing along to my favorite – and the last verse – of the song.

_I could make you happy, make your dreams come true  
>Nothing that I wouldn't do<br>Go to the ends of Earth for you  
>To make you feel my love<em>

A strangled sound comes from Damon. He holds me so close to him, I can hear his heartbeat. He shivers beneath the warm water. As the song fades, he quietly speaks.

"I'm going to miss you so much while you're away."

When my eyes flutter open, I almost stumble at the assortment of emotions within his blue ones. Longing. Anxiety. Desire. Fear.

Love.

His resulting kiss makes my knees buckle. When we break apart, we cup each other's faces. I've done nothing but touch him today and I still can't get enough of him. I go in for another kiss…but my iHome alarm shrilly bounces off the bathroom walls.

Damon's face falls. "Guess bath time's over."

"Yeah." Misery over my approaching departure spreads through my body like a slow toxin. With a sigh, I step out of the shower and cancel the alarm.

I turn off the playlist, no longer able to stomach music that reminds me of everything Damon and I experienced together over the past thirty minutes. We towel off and return to my bedroom in relative silence. I slowly dress in the jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and sneakers I chose to wear on the plane. Damon sits on my bed. I watch him eye his worn dress clothes with distaste.

"If you want, I can see if Matt has a shirt and a pair of unworn briefs you can borrow," I offer. "So you don't have to wear last night's clothes after you showered."

His shrug is barely perceptible. "Sure."

His sadness is my sadness, and makes my heart weep for us. Fully clothed, I straddle his towel-clad legs. His eyes snap to mine. "Hey, Sulky," I tease, hoping my voice sounds as lighthearted as I _don't_ feel. "Your brooding is making me anxious again, and as much as I'd love for a repeat performance of De-stressing with Damon: Shower Edition, Aunt Jenna's wrath will tear me to shreds if I miss my flight."

His lips twitch with the start of a smile. "We can't have that now, can we?" He buries his head into my shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know I'm being difficult. It just sucks that I'm spending the holidays with Father and Stefan and not with you."

"I wish you could come to Mystic Falls with me." I lean back to look at him. "But we can call and Skype each other when we're not busy with family time. I'll be back in Atlanta before you know it. We'll make it work."

"Just like we always do."

I nod. "I love you, Damon. I may be going home for a few weeks, but this?" I tap on my heart. "It's not going anywhere."

He tenderly kisses me, then touches his forehead to mine. "I'm crazy about you, Elena Gilbert."

We hold each other for a quiet moment. A small part of me feels stung that he responded to my 'I love you' with an 'I'm crazy about you', but I remind myself that I cut him off when he tried to say those three words last night. His love for me is there, I'm sure of it. It's in his eyes when he looks at me, in his words when he talks to me. He probably needs to rebuild his confidence that I won't reject him when…hopefully when…he tries to say it again.

I kiss him once more, then hop to my feet. "Okay, my bus to the airport leaves in twenty minutes. You need clean clothes. I need to unplug everything, make sure nothing's rotting in the refrigerator, double-check to make sure I have everyone's presents…"

Damon stands. "How can I help?"

"Can you check the fridge?"

"Sure thing, my lady."

Fifteen minutes later, the curtains are closed, everything's unplugged except for the newly-clean refrigerator, and a small bag of trash sits next to my closed suitcase. Damon and I stand in front of my apartment door. He's wearing one of Matt's bar shirts with his dress pants and shoes. He looks ridiculous, but hey, he makes ridiculous look good.

He sets his folded dress shirt on top of my suitcase and pulls me into his arms. "Text me when you land."

"I will." I bite my lip. _I will not cry._

"And I'm going to call you tonight to tell you how you need to come back and buffer me from Father and Stefan and have a repeat de-stressing session in _my_ shower."

I smile into his chest. "It'll be okay."

"Yeah, it will be."

I sigh. "What are we going to do next semester? U of A's policy isn't going anywhere."

A look flashes across Damon's face that I'm not sure how to decipher. He shakes his head as if he's having a mental argument with himself. "We'll come up with a plan by the end of break. Promise."

"Okay," I say, not sure how confident I am in his noncommittal answer. I don't push the issue, though, knowing this time is best spent simply soaking up the rhythm of his heartbeat and the comforting feel of his arms.

I look at him. "Give me a kiss that I can still feel in three weeks."

His eyes darken with hunger. My blood smolders as he backs me into the apartment door, plants his hands on either side of my face, and crushes his mouth to mine in a dominating kiss that's wild and desperate and leaves me feeling dizzy and powerful all at once. I gasp for air when he tears away from me and touch my passion-bruised lips.

"I have to go," I whisper, wanting to do anything but leave.

Damon looks as miserable as I feel. "We probably shouldn't head out together in case we happen to run into someone from school."

"The door automatically locks when you close it behind you." I hand him his dress shirt and grab my suitcase handle. "I'll go first. You can stay until you think it's safe to leave."

I grab the door handle and turn back to Damon. "I love you."

He interlaces our fingers and tenderly kisses the top of my hand. His eyes grow glassy. "I…"

_Say it!_

He sighs. "I'll call you. Be safe, Elena."

I nod, take one last look at him, and walk out of the apartment. Disappointment washes over me as I carry my suitcase down to the lobby. Be safe? That's the last thing Damon says to me when I'm about to leave for three weeks? Unbidden tears pool in my eyes as I wheel my suitcase to the bus stop near my apartment complex. I take calming breaths and try to remind myself that Damon loves me, that he's just waiting for the right time to say it.

A bus pulls up to my stop. As I board it, I see Damon's Camaro sitting in the parking lot. I shake my head. _I will not cry_. I settle into an empty seat near the back and look outside.

Damon's face stares at me from my apartment bedroom window.

I give him a small wave and try to smile. He returns both gestures, though his smile looks like more of a grimace. We touch our lips at the same time. A tear slips down my face as I feel that familiar jolt of being connected with him.

The bus leaves my apartment building. Damon's face slowly gets smaller and smaller until I can't see him anymore. Tears stain my cheeks as my body shakes with silent sobs. Just watching Damon disappear from sight sent my heart through a shredder. How can I smile and be happy with my family and friends over break when I'm not with the person who's come to matter the most?

When the bus arrives at the airport, I've had enough of my moping. I refuse to be sad the entire break just because Damon's not around. I'm going to bake cookies with Aunt Jenna and play laser tag with Matt, Jeremy, and Anna, and even though these distractions won't stop me from missing Damon, they will prevent me from counting down the seconds until I return to Atlanta. My parents' deaths taught me to appreciate the loved ones who _are_ in my life. After the crazy semester I had, I'm not going to take my Mystic Falls family for granted.

Besides, at least I like the people I'm returning to. Poor Damon's about to make a serious attempt to be a family with his estranged Dad and brother. If I think positive thoughts, maybe I can send some of them his way.

I embrace my new attitude as I go through security, board, and sit through the two-hour plane ride from Atlanta to Washington, D.C. When we land, I shoot a quick text to Aunt Jenna and Jeremy letting them know I've arrived and a subsequent one to Damon.

_**Just landed in DC. The pilot said that it's 23 degrees outside, but I'm warm just thinking about that kiss ;)**_

His response comes when I'm walking to baggage claim.

_**Keep thinking about that kiss until I can give you another one. I know I'll be doing the same. **_

It's amazing how a single text can make me radioactive with happiness. My smile is so wide, my cheeks could split. I greet Jeremy and Anna with that same goofy grin, my giddiness over Damon's words and seeing them for the first time since the summer rolled into a single ball of pure contentment.

The three of us make idle chit-chat about our semesters on the two-hour drive from Dulles to Mystic Falls, and when we pull up to my house at 2104 Maple Street, Aunt Jenna rushes out of the white two-story colonial wearing an apron, flour-smudged cheeks, and a smile that matches my own.

"Elena!" she exclaims in a honey-dipped voice. "You made it!"

"I did!" I laugh when she slams into me with a hug. "Your hair smells like gingerbread."

"And you smell like plane, so I think I win," she counters. She slings her arm over my shoulder and steers us towards the house. "Jer, bring your sister's stuff into the house!"

"What am I, a bellhop?" he grumbles good-naturedly. His brown hair flops in his face as he heaves my suitcase into the house.

Anna sniggers. "I'll have to remember this."

We walk into the living room and sit on the sofas. A six-foot decorated Christmas tree towers in the corner of the room. Lit candles dot the windowsills and stockings with snowmen printed on them hang from the mantel. I close my eyes and inhale the dueling scents of spice and evergreen. The holiday fragrances relax me, remind me of the twenty-four other years I've breathed in those same smells from this same spot on the sofa.

Perry Como was right – there really is no place like home for the holidays.

I still wish Damon was here with me.

"So, what's new?" Aunt Jenna twists to face me. "Tell me everything."

Over the next two hours, the four of us split a bottle of wine and catch up about everything that's happened since we were all together over the summer. I learn about Jeremy and Anna's student art projects and how they're probably going to earn honors when they graduate from undergraduate design school in late May. Aunt Jenna tells us about how she and the Mystic Falls Conservation Society are in the process of restoring the old Fell Mansion and plan to submit it for National Historic Landmark status. When it's my turn, I talk about how Donovan's Band is still going strong, how thrilled I am to have a completed first draft of my novel, and how helpful Professor Salvatore's feedback was throughout the semester.

"Professor Salvatore, huh?" Aunt Jenna sits on her heels with a knowing smile. "Let's talk about him. He sounds sexy."

"Aunt Jenna!" I squawk. As my hands cover my traitorous blush, I hear Jeremy and Anna laughing at me.

"She's turning red, Aunt Jenna!" Jeremy smirks at me. "Looks like someone's hot for teacher."

My cheeks burn even hotter. "I plead the fifth about Damon."

"Oh, it's _Damon_ now?" Aunt Jenna teases.

Pretty sure the shade of my face matches the scarlet ornaments on the tree. "Still pleading the fifth."

Jeremy opens his mouth to say something, but Anna cuts him off. "Hey, Elena doesn't have to say anything about her sexy professor if she doesn't want to right now."

"Thank you, Anna."

Her almond-shaped eyes fix me with a wicked grin. "We have the entire holiday to force a confession from her."

I try to glare at her. "_Thanks_, Anna. I'll remember this betrayal when we play laser tag this week."

She sticks out her tongue at me, I return the gesture, and the subject of Damon is thankfully dropped as we disperse to head downtown. As I go to lug my suitcase upstairs, Aunt Jenna pulls me into the kitchen alcove.

"Is your professor cute?" She waggles her eyebrows in a manner that makes me laugh because the gesture is _so_ Damon.

I look either way to make sure Jeremy and Anna aren't lurking in the corners. "Cute doesn't begin to describe him, Aunt Jenna."

"Picture?"

I briefly debate whether or not to show her, but Aunt Jenna's always been more of a big sister than an aunt to me. I pull up my pictures on my phone and show her a picture Bree took of Damon and me at her bar.

Aunt Jenna whistles. "Do all men look like that in Atlanta? You hit the jackpot."

"He's great, Aunt Jenna." I can't stop a smile from spreading across my face. "He's brilliant. He makes me laugh. He invited Matt, Bonnie and I over to his house for Thanksgiving. He doesn't open up to a lot of people, but he trusts me with stories about his family that no one else knows. When I didn't win a contest I thought I'd at least place in, he took me out to cheer me up."

She stares at me. "You're in love with him."

"Yes."

Her arms cross. "Does he feel the same way about you?"

"He hasn't said it yet, but yes…I'm pretty sure he does."

She raises an eyebrow. "And you're not going to get in trouble for seeing each other?"

I falter. "It's complicated."

"Complicated, huh?" She opens her mouth to say something, then closes it again. "Well, he sounds like he really cares about you. I'm sure everything's going to work out. But as your aunt, I'm obligated to tell you to be careful."

I chuckle when she rolls her eyes at herself. "I will, _Aunt_ Jenna. Promise."

Jeremy and Anna bound down the stairs. "You ready, Elena?"

As I put on my coat, Aunt Jenna reminds us about tonight's festivities. "Make sure you're back by 6:30 so we can start Christmas Eve dinner at 7. Oh, and I invited Matt to join us, so pick up an extra bottle of wine in case we need it, okay?"

"No problem, Aunt Jenna." Jeremy and I share a secret smile. If Aunt Jenna's around, there's no doubt we'll need that extra bottle.

Jeremy, Anna, and I pile into Aunt Jenna's Mini-Cooper and head to downtown Mystic Falls. The town's decorated to look like a Civil War Christmas village. I use my phone to snap several pictures of the streetlamps and their evergreen wreaths, the carolers donned in reenactment garb from the 1860s, and the storefront windows filled with displays of yuletide feasts and children playing in the snow. I send the images to Damon.

_**Downtown Mystic Falls. Are the window displays accurate?**_

I'm used to his immediate responses, so I find myself checking my phone every other minute until his responding text chimes an hour later.

_**Your town's one of those towns that goes all-out for holidays? I'm jealous…even if the feast is more Victorian England than Civil War America ;)**_

I grin and type as Jeremy and Anna deliberate over how many bottles of wine Aunt Jenna _really_ wants us to bring home.

_**I'll tell Aunt Jenna about the feast's shortcomings – she'll fix it. & yes, Mystic Falls celebrates everything. How's your family?**_

Damon answers me in less than a minute.

_**Surprisingly understanding. I've got to run some errands. Can I call you in 1 hour?**_

I frown at his unusually cryptic text but tell him that yes, one hour is great and I look forward to talking to him. I pocket my phone and vow not to look at it unless someone calls or texts me. If I don't practice resisting Damon's allure now, I'm going to be miserable the next twenty days.

I walk over to Jeremy and Anna. "We're getting four bottles of wine," I decide, "two for tonight and two to make mulled wine for tomorrow."

"Mulled wine?" Anna repeats. "Never had it."

Jeremy and I spend the drive home telling Anna about the benefits of mulled wine and how much of it is consumed in the Gilbert house over the holidays.

Matt's truck is parked outside when we pull up to the house. I'm a bit nervous to face him. The last time Matt saw me, I was a wretched heap of flesh because I'd just backed out of being Damon's TA. He's my best friend; I know he's going to ask me if the situation resolved itself. Should I tell him what happened, or should I keep the events of last night to myself?

I debate with myself as I follow Jeremy and Anna into the kitchen. Aunt Jenna and Matt stand at the kitchen island and laugh over a fig and orange-glazed ham. They look up when I plunk the bags of wine onto the countertop.

I grin at Matt. "Didn't I see you yesterday?"

He returns my smile, but his eyes shine with concern for me. "How was the airport?"

"Busy, but not as bad as I expected. What about the drive?"

"Traffic sucked in North Carolina, but it was good otherwise." He lowers his voice. "What happened after I left yesterday? Did Damon find out about the class?"

This is _not_ a conversation I want to have around Jeremy, Anna, and Aunt Jenna, so I motion for Matt to follow me upstairs to my bedroom. I close the door behind us. "He found out at the holiday party."

Matt crosses his arms. "How'd he take it?"

"Not well." I wince at the memory. "He said I treated him worse than Dr. Pierce and started to run out on me."

"Ouch."

"I sang to him."

Matt's eyes bug. "You _sang_? In front of the entire History department?"

"Yep. The Judy Garland version of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas'. It was my _Glee_ moment of 2012."

"That's huge, Elena. Did he stay to hear the song?"

"Yes, but he left as soon as I finished."

Matt sighs. "That sucks, Lena. I'm sorry—"

"He came to the apartment."

Matt watches me pace around my room. "Whoa."

I stop and look at Matt. "I told Damon that I loved him. And I think he was going to say that he loved me too, but I stopped him before he could say anything and told him to leave. And he did, but then he came back…and we kissed…and he spent the night in my bed."

Speechless, Matt sinks onto my bed. I settle next to him. He shakes his head and quietly mumbles things I don't understand like "he wasn't lying earlier" and "going to have to be nice to him now". He finally looks at me with an unreadable expression. "Have you heard from him since you left?"

"Twice, and he's supposed to call me within the hour."

"Good." He shakes his head again. "You worked out a game plan for next semester?"

"We're going to figure it out over break. I know, it's not ideal," I acknowledge when Matt opens his mouth to protest, "but I'd rather us take the time to think of an arrangement that'll actually work than agree to something and have it blow up in our faces."

"That's what she said," Matt mutters.

I smack his arm, though I'm secretly grateful for the mood-lightening joke. Matt snickers, then gives me a serious look. "Lena, if being with Damon makes you happy…then I'll support the two of you. But if he screws you over in any way, he'll have to answer to me. And Bonnie."

I shudder at the tortures Bonnie could perform on someone. "I'll make sure to let him know in case he wants to reconsider our relationship."

"Lena, that man's an idiot if he lets the threat of a little Bonnie torture scare him away from a relationship with you."

I pretend to sniffle and throw my arms around his shoulders. "That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me."

Matt rolls his eyes. "So I'm feeling sincere on Christmas. Don't get used to it."

The two of us playfully shove each other on our way back to the kitchen and continue preparing our Christmas Eve feast. Jeremy's making some sort of spiced pumpkin cake batter. Aunt Jenna adds cinnamon sticks and orange peels to the crock of mulled wine while Anna stuffs dates with chopped bacon, garlic, and blue cheese. Matt puts me to work whisking a balsamic-cranberry sauce for the ham while he checks the meat and starts mixing the mashed potatoes. We work to the sound of Christmas classics on the radio, retelling stories from Christmases past while occasionally snitching bites of food, and when 6:55 rolls around and Aunt Jenna asks Jeremy to set the table, my heart is full with all the love in this house.

As I carry the courses to the dining room table, I notice that the table's set for six instead of five. "Hey Jer, who's the extra person?"

He shrugs. "A friend of Aunt Jenna's?"

I walk back into the kitchen and grab the rolls from the oven. "Is someone else coming to dinner?"

Matt, who's on the phone, snaps his cell shut and tosses his car keys to me. "I don't know, but can you run to my truck and see if I left a bag of groceries in the passenger seat?"

"Uh…sure." As I debate whether or not to wear my coat, 'Swept Away' plays from my pocket. I fish it out and see Damon's name on the screen. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself."

Gah, his voice even sounds like liquid velvet over the phone. I decide to forgo a jacket and walk to the front door. "How are you?"

"Can't complain, and I think my life's about to get even better."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?" When I step outside, the brisk air slaps my face. I do a small warming dance on the porch and hear Damon's laughter in my ear. It sounds louder than it usually does on the phone.

"Because I can't wait to see your expression when you look up."

Wait. _See_ my expression?

I look to the street. I vaguely register the sound of my phone crashing to the ground because Damon's leaning against his Camaro..._in front of my house_.

I'm too staggered to do anything other than stand on my porch and gape at him as he approaches me. His smirk grows when I hesitantly reach out and touch his leather jacket.

"Yep, seeing your expression was worth every second of that eight-hour drive."

"You're here." I can't stop touching his arms. "You're not a mirage. You're actually in Mystic Falls. You're actually standing with me on my porch right now."

He smirks. "Surprise."

Disbelief colors my voice. "How are you here? _Why_ are you here? I'm so happy to see you, but I don't understand."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and removes U of A's policy handbook. "I wanted to give you your Christmas present."

"You drove all this way to give me a copy of our university's policies?"

He stares at me expectantly. "Page 72."

I give him a skeptical look, but he nods at the handbook so I flip to page 72 – the section on student/faculty relationships.

"Read it," he whispers. "Out loud."

My hands shake as I search for the correct passage. I take a deep breath and begin to read.

"All faculty members at the University of Atlanta are prohibited from engaging in romantic or sexual relationships with all _undergraduate _students or graduate students _in their classes or department_." I glance at Damon, who nudges me to keep reading. "Faculty members are _discouraged_ from engaging in romantic or sexual relationships with graduate students outside of their department. All relationships between a University of Atlanta faculty member and a graduate student who adheres to these criteria must be immediately reported to Academic Dean Atticus Shane. Failure to comply with this policy will result in immediate student expulsion and professor termination and potential legal prosecution."

I try to comprehend what I just read. "_Discouraged_ from engaging in romantic relationships?"

A smile pokes at the corners of Damon's mouth. "Only if you're a graduate student," he makes a 'check' figure with his hand, "outside of the professor-in-question's class or department," he makes a second 'check'. "Thank God you chose to be a MFA student with a focus on History instead of the other way around."

"Is this policy change for real?" I'm scared to believe what I've just read. "When is it valid? August?"

"Try January," Damon supplies, his smile growing impossibly wide.

I look at him. "You mean…?"

"Told you I'd figure something out. I'm hoping you'll prefer this option to ignoring each other on-campus and sneaking around with each other off-campus."

"I do, but I'm still trying to process everything." My hands fly to my head. "How did you get the policy changed? Something like this takes weeks, even months to happen. And I'm still so glad you're here, but why did you drive eight hours to tell me about the policy change when you could've called me?"

Damon chuckles at the way my thoughts flow from my mouth at a mile a minute. He places his hands on my shoulders to steady me. "First of all, I teamed up with other professors who wanted the policy changed the week after Thanksgiving because I've known I wanted to be with you since you spent that day at my house. We convinced the Board of Directors to vote on the new policy last Monday. It passed. I wanted to wait until I had a new copy of the handbook to tell you."

I'm stuck on his earlier declaration. "You've known you wanted to be with me since Thanksgiving?"

"Knew it the second you didn't freak out about the Salvatore family dungeon," he says. "And as to your second point, sure, I could have told you about this over the phone or in person, but I wanted to see you."

"After all," he continues, taking my hands in his, "Christmas is supposed to be shared with the ones you love…and I love you so much, Elena Gilbert."

My eyes are a watery mess as I throw myself into Damon's arms and kiss him with all the love I feel for him. He laughs against my lips and spins me around the porch, and I squeal and giggle and shower his face with more kisses. Raucous applause sounds from the house, and I see Aunt Jenna, Jeremy, Anna, and Matt cheering at us from the windows. Damon and I grin at each other before we toss our arms around each other and walk to the door.

"Is there a reason my family and friends don't look surprised to see you?" I ask before opening the door.

"I may have called Caroline the second you left your apartment and asked her for Matt's phone number." Damon smirks. "It took about five minutes to convince him and the rest of your family to get on board with my plan. You were right about Aunt Jenna – one mention of how much I could help with the Fell Mansion restoration and she said I could stay as long as you wanted."

"As long as _I _want, huh?" I beam at him. "I like the sound of that."

His giddy expression mirrors my own. "Me too."

I step into the front entryway and look back at him. "So, Damon…would you like to come in?"

He doesn't hesitate. "I would _love_ to, Elena."

* * *

><p><strong>Just the epilogue to go before BIYE is dunzo! I'm saving my more-detailed thank yous for the final chapter, but HUGE thanks to all for reading, reviewing, and being crazy-awesome.<br>**

**Twitter: jazzywritingAmy - I post about writing updates, my angst over being unable to watch the new episodes of _Arrested Development _because I don't have Netflix, and embarrassing stories from when my bosses catch me writing fan fiction at work.**


	50. Chapter 50

_**Damon Salvatore:  
>Monday, May 13, 2013<strong>_

As I pull into Hartsfield-Jackson's drop-off zone, Elena faces the motley crew of family members squished into the backseat of my Camaro. "Are you sure you have everything?" she asks – for the third time in the twenty-eight minutes it's taken me to chauffer everyone from the boarding house to the airport.

"_Yes_, Elena." I can practically hear Stefan and Jeremy roll their eyes at her. Then they snicker and give each other a fist bump. _Dicks_.

Elena scowls at them before slumping back into the passenger seat. "Whose idea was it to introduce our families to each other?" she gripes. "All they've done is pick on me this entire weekend."

"Hey, Peppe and I didn't do anything!" Aunt Jenna protests.

I make eye contact with Dad in the review mirror. "_Peppe_?" I mouth. He gives me that patented Salvatore smirk before getting out of the car and strutting to open Aunt Jenna's door.

As Stefan and Jeremy unload everyone's bags from the trunk, Elena and I stare at each other with twin looks of horror.

"Peppe?" she repeats, her voice an octave higher than usual.

"It's a nickname for Giuseppe. And I'm pretty sure he called your aunt 'Bella Jennifer' at the party last night." When Elena's dismay grows, I thread my fingers through hers. "Cheer up, buttercup. At least we're not going to join the ranks of Romeo and Juliet and die because our families are a bunch of feuding wackos. Our families actually get along. That's a good thing."

"Maybe too much of a good thing," she mutters as we watch Dad and Aunt Jenna program their numbers into each other's phones. Not gonna lie, my Dad's still got game. Or maybe we Salvatores are just suckers for women from the Sommers gene pool. Probably both.

I wrap my arm around Elena's shoulders. "Come on. The sooner we send everyone on their merry way, the sooner I get you alone." I discreetly nip her ear. "It's been too long since we've been alone…"

"We were alone in your office yesterday before the ceremony," she reminds me with a come-hither grin.

"Yes, and if I'd known how turned on you'd get at the sight of me in my academic robes, I'd have donned them a lot sooner."

Seriously, I'm the luckiest bastard in the world. What other professor's girlfriend would throw him to his office floor and give him the ride of his life – in her cap and gown, nonetheless, because it's twenty minutes before _her_ graduation ceremony's supposed to start – at the sight of him in academic regalia? Then again, I'm just as turned on by Elena's brilliance. The night she read an excerpt from her novel for her Senior Showcase, I dragged her back to my office caveman-style and fucked her silly against my bookshelves, desk, and couch. We spent the night there because we were too exhausted to put on our clothes.

My dick stiffens at the memories of the hours of loving my office has seen this semester. It deflates when a pair of knuckles rap on my window.

I glare at Stefan and Jeremy. "What do you want, Wonder Twins?"

They cross their arms and try (and fail) to look menacing. "Could you not molest my sister in the middle of an airport drop-off zone?" Jeremy demands. "There are children around!"

"Yeah, like this guy." Stefan elbows Jeremy in the ribs. "You're stealing his innocence!"

"Oh no, that's been gone for a while," Aunt Jenna cuts in. Dad laughs as Jeremy rolls his eyes, and Elena and I share an amused glance before we step out of the car to say goodbye to our families.

As I hug Aunt Jenna and watch Elena giggle at something Dad tells her, I marvel that I, perpetual lone-man Damon Salvatore, now feel like I'm part of not one but _two_ families. It's Elena's fault. When I watched her board her bus on Christmas Eve, I felt like someone ripped my heart from my chest and packed it in her suitcase. And as that bus pulled away and took my heart and my Elena with it, clarity crashed on my head like an anvil in one of those _Looney Tunes_ cartoons: I had to go after her. I had to be with Elena on Christmas. I couldn't wait until she returned to Atlanta in three weeks to tell her about the policy change or learn about her holiday or feel my stomach flip whenever she turns those doe eyes my way. Call it a gut instinct, but the second that bus left my sight, I moved on autopilot. I sped to the boarding house, tossed some clothes and the hot-off-the-press policy handbook in a bag, and zipped onto the highway with my GPS set for Mystic Falls.

Those eight hours of driving through Bumfuck, Nowhere? Of groveling to Donovan so he would help me team up with Elena's aunt and brother to surprise Elena that night? Of swallowing my pride and having separate phone conversations with Stefan and Dad to explain that I wouldn't be joining them for Christmas because I had to follow my heart to a tiny town in the middle of Virginia and be with the woman I loved more than life itself? All worth it to see the shock on Elena's face when she saw me standing outside her house. All worth it to watch her read the handbook, realize that we could be a public couple next semester, and let me kiss her on her front porch. But the cherry on top of the really big sundae that was my Christmas Eve (and yes, I know I'm going to sound like a total sap when I say this)? Being invited into a house swarming with people who genuinely wanted to spend the holidays with each other and who wanted _me_ to spend the holidays with _them_. Elena's Mystic Falls family didn't care that I was crashing their Christmas Eve on a moment's notice. Well, Aunt Jenna commented over dinner that I should give her a twelve-hour warning next year before I show up on her porch. She also pulled me aside when Elena was in the shower to interrogate me about "my intentions" with her niece.

She crossed her arms. "You're Elena's professor."

"Now-_former_ professor."

"And you're seven years older than her."

"Yes."

"Can I be honest with you, Damon?"

I nodded.

"You've had a lot more life experience than Elena. You've had more time than she has to become sure of who you are and what you want. You're settled into your life while she's still trying to decide what she wants hers to be." She shifted in her seat. "I'm sure you're a great guy, but I'd be lying if I said that I was completely okay with the two of you together. You and Elena are at very different places in your lives. I don't want her to feel pressured into settling for a life she's not ready for if she keeps seeing you."

"I don't want to pressure Elena into settling for anything. I want her to get everything she wants from life now and five, ten, twenty years from now. But I'm also learning more about myself every day, just as I'm sure you keep discovering things about yourself." I angled my body towards hers. "I'm very particular about who I spend my time with, so I take the select friendships I have very seriously. I wouldn't drive eight hours on Christmas Eve to be with your niece if I thought we didn't have lasting power. I want us to grow together. I want her in my life for as long as possible, and that's something about myself I _know_ in my gut won't change."

Aunt Jenna studied my face. "I want to like you," she finally said. "Don't give me a reason not to."

"I won't."

"And Damon?" She offered me a smile that eased the tension from my body. "I haven't seen Elena this happy since her parents were alive. If you continue to make her this happy, you can stay as long as you want."

And I did. In Elena's room, to be precise. I'd fully expected to get booted to the couch for propriety's sake, but I quickly learned that propriety is hardly an issue in the Gilbert house after Elena, Little Gilbert, Little Gilbert's Girlfriend, and I were treated to the sight of a boozy Aunt Jenna showing us the moves she and her girlfriends learned in a pole-dancing class. Anyways, I fell asleep and woke up with Elena in my arms every day that Christmas week. It's crazy how something as simple as feeling her cozied up to me made my chest feel all light and butterfly-y.

Another highlight of my time in Mystic Falls? Browsing the Gilbert family photo albums and listening to Elena explain the context of every picture. She was a cute kid with her big eyes, long pigtails, and missing teeth. My favorite picture was of her and Donovan dressed as Leia and Luke from _Star Wars_ for their eighth Halloween. And cute kid Elena definitely developed into star-of-wet-dreams teen Elena. The shots I saw of her in her slip of a cheerleading uniform? It's no wonder Donovan felt protective of her – there's no way Elena didn't have to use a bat to beat back her would-be suitors. Hell, I found myself getting a little jealous of all the barely-pubescent boys who got to watch Elena walk around every game day wearing that swishy skirt.

I nudged her. "Do you still have your uniform?"

She shrugged. "I think it's buried in the back of my closet. Why?"

"Bring it to Atlanta."

I spent the rest of the week playing video games with Little Gilbert, touring the Fell Mansion with Aunt Jenna, and walking around downtown Mystic Falls with Elena, Donovan, and some of her other high school friends-turned-acquaintances. We spent most of our nights schmoozing with people at a place called The Grill – Mystic Falls' only restaurant, according to Elena. I didn't complain. I was just happy to be with her. She introduced me to everyone she knew as "her Damon", which was a nice change from Katherine ignoring my existence around the people she always ditched me for. Just another example I could add to my very long lists of Why Elena Is the Best and Why Katherine Can Rot in a Fiery Pit of Hell.

And after spending a week with Elena and her family, my internal list dedicated to Elena's greatness had grown pretty long. But when she told me that she wanted to cancel her return flight and road trip with me to Atlanta so we could spend New Years Eve and Day with Dad and Stefan? Her goodness broke my list the way the Grinch's heart broke the handheld X-Ray machine because it was so above and beyond what I thought I deserved from someone. I mean, this woman was choosing to walk with me into the lion's den because she knew I was reluctant to do it alone. If an award existed for the most selfless person on the planet, Elena would win it in a heartbeat just for being with me on New Year's Eve.

The trip back to Atlanta started easy enough. I kept my left hand on the steering wheel as my right fingers curled around Elena's. She stuck her sock-clad feet on the dashboard and controlled the radio, which ended up being background noise anyway since we talked the entire first half of the drive. But the closer we got to Atlanta, the more the Ghosts of Family Encounters Past invaded my head.

"When was the last time you saw your father and Stefan?" Elena asked.

The Georgia welcome sign passed by in a blur of blue. "Two, maybe three years ago?" I frowned as I tried to remember. "Stefan's then-orchestra played a gig in Charlottesville. I was on my way to the library to do some research for my doctoral thesis when I ran into them exiting the concert hall."

"Did they tell you they'd be in town?"

"Nope."

We both stared out the window at the leafless sycamore trees. I don't know what Elena was thinking, but I remembered the indifferent look on both of their faces when they saw me on the street...the way I forced my expression to match their apathetic ones when all I wanted to do was hit something.

After a bout of silence, Elena squeezed my hand.

"Things will be better this time," she said.

And even though I was reluctant to believe her after twenty-four years of family estrangement, Elena and I beat the odds together once again.

Dad and Stefan actually warmed to Elena's presence in the boarding house faster than they did mine. Within seconds of our arrival, she'd already introduced herself, settled the two of us in the loveseat next to the fireplace, and engaged them in a conversation about why she preferred to play Ravel's _Gaspard de la Nuit_ over Ligeti's _Itudes por piano_. Dad and Stefan were skeptical. Apparently those two pieces of music are ridiculously difficult to play. But then Elena strolled over to the piano in the corner of the room and breezed through one of those pieces as if it was no more difficult than playing "Chopsticks". Stefan's mouth fell so far to the floor, he could've shoved his big feet in there and still had room for dessert. Then Elena asked him to duet with her on Faure's _Violin Sonato No. 1_, and it sounded flawless, and Stefan was putty in her hands from that moment on.

Dad? Not so much. As Elena and Stefan encouraged each other through Faure, Dad's mouth stayed firmly pressed in a thin line of disapproval.

He spoke in a voice that dripped with condescension. "Is she even legal?"

"She's twenty-four, Father," I said through clenched teeth. "And she's going to earn her MFA this spring."

"It's not the most fruitful pursuit, but I presume she's with you to make the most of her academic connections," he said. I balled my hands into fists to keep from ripping out his larynx. Implying that Elena's some kind of intellectual prestige gold-digger who can't accomplish things on her own? _Not_ acceptable.

Discordant notes clanged from the piano as Elena's fingers slammed down on the keys. She whirled around and fixed Dad with a glare. "Pardon the interruption, Mr. Salvatore," she said in a voice cold enough to freeze hell, "But you should know that I prefer to leave my clothes on when I make the most of my academic connections."

I took a sip of bourbon to keep from sniggering at the stunned looks on Dad and Stefan's faces. I bet Mom was the last woman to dare speak so frankly to Dad.

"And," she continued, "I'm with Damon because I'm in love with him. He's generous and thoughtful and boosts my confidence that I've got the capability to do anything if I set my mind to it. He's someone I want in my life for as long as he'll have me because he makes me want to be a better person. He has so many redeeming qualities, it would take an eternity for me to name all of them."

Her voice softened. "I know the three of you haven't had the easiest relationship, but none of you would be here if you weren't searching for reconciliation. And because I'm invested in Damon – and the two of you by proxy – I hope you can call a ceasefire and find common ground with each other. Don't waste this rare time with each other. You want things to be better? Make them better."

And then, as if the three of us weren't staring at her with a mixture of shock, awe, and pride, she turned back to Stefan and continued playing the piano as if her speech wasn't more motivational than William Wallace yelling to his men about freedom.

Looking back, it's plain to see that the three of us took Elena's words to heart. Stefan and I started acting like brothers on that same night when he came to Bree's Bar with me and Elena to watch the ball drop. Elena was a great buffer for the first half of the night, but when she took a bathroom break, Stefan and I awkwardly twiddled our thumbs at the bar.

"So..."

"So..." I echoed.

Cue the chirping crickets.

"I like her," Stefan finally said. "Elena. She reminds me of Lexi."

"Lexi?"

"My girlfriend."

"Oh." Talking about Stefan's girlfriend seemed like as good a conversation starter as any. "How did you meet?"

Conversations about Stefan's Bon Jovi-roadie girlfriend prompted me to talk about Donovan's Band and their rivalry with The Originals, which led to a story about how Stefan's current group was asked by the TLC channel to star in a new television show named _Orchestra Wars_ about rivalries within and between the world's top orchestras (they turned down the offer), which then launched us into a discussion about competition in the music and academic fields. And then I started talking about Elena's novel and how it was about two brothers who competed with each other because they fell in love with the same girl, so it only seemed natural that the next words out of my mouth were an apology to Stefan for acting like a super-dick when all he did was inherit Mom's musical talent. And he said for the longest time he didn't know what he did to make me hate him so much, and I told him that it was Father I hated, not him, and he said that he was sorry for not encouraging Father to be fairer with me. And then some of the weight lifted from my chest, and we shared a lot of embarrassing bro-hugs and joked about submitting a video to _The Amazing Race_. Elena came back from wherever because it was an hour after she left for the bathroom and there's no way she took that long to take a piss. She grinned at me and the ball dropped and I kissed her at midnight and my winter vacation kept getting better and better.

The three of us quickly became a package deal during the rest of break. We explored the woods in our backyard and practiced balancing on the felled trees. Stefan and I taught Elena how to throw a football and she gave us swing lessons. We alternated our nights between stargazing, playing pool, and flipping through the Salvatore family photo albums, where Elena gushed at the sight of three-year-old me dressed as a Confederate soldier for Halloween. Dad joined us on occasion, having succumbed to Elena's charms, but those times were more uncomfortable because he and I had yet to have the balls-to-the-wall conversation about our relationship that Stefan and I had on New Year's Eve.

Elena was ready to tear her hair out from her frustration with us. She started conversations with Dad by bragging about my accomplishments, and she asked me at least once a day if she wanted her and Stefan to leave so Dad and I could have some alone time. He and I didn't take her bait. We were both too stubborn to be the first to admit that we were wrong, but Elena refused to be deterred. One day, while Stefan and I tossed the ball out back, I looked at the house and saw Elena and Dad in a heated conversation through the window. She gave him her "fix your shit" eyebrow, and he shook his head, and she pointed in my direction without taking her eyes off him, and I'm not a lip reader but I think she yelled something like "he's your son, Mr. Salvatore!" Then she hugged him and damn if the look on his face wasn't etched with conflict. He looked over her shoulder and through the window at me, and my eyes didn't waiver from his until Elena broke their hug, patted his shoulder, and walked away.

That night, I savored a tumbler of bourbon in front of the fireplace by myself. Elena was at her apartment and Stefan was practicing a trumpet solo in his bedroom. Heavy footsteps sounded behind me before Dad sat on the loveseat adjacent from mine with a full brandy snifter in his hand. We didn't say anything at first, just sat and listened to the crackles of the fire.

"You have your mother's eyes," he said. "You also have her hair and mouth, but your eyes are exactly like hers. Every time I looked at you, I saw a miniature version of her. She was my light, and I didn't know how to sustain that light when she died. I felt lost without her. Every time I saw you, I saw her, and I was reminded that she was gone and never coming back."

"I felt just as lost as you did." My chest felt like it was about to split from the years of pent-up hurt that was clawing its way to my surface. "I missed Mom. I knew what'd happened but I didn't know how to make sense of it. You were too busy with Stefan to give me the time of day. Every time I tried to get your attention, you looked at me as if _I _killed Mom, and I couldn't understand why you didn't look at Stefan that way."

Dad stared at the flames. "Your brother never had the opportunity to know your mother. If he couldn't know her love, I was going to be sure that he felt mine."

"So you took your love from me and gave it to Stefan. Great plan, Father," I scowled. "I lost both of my parents the day Mom died."

"I wasn't much of a parent to you before your mother died, Damon. Your mother took care of you and I footed the bill. I didn't know a thing about raising a seven-year-old boy."

"Because raising a baby was _so_ much easier," I retorted.

Dad frowned. "I thought I could atone for being an inadequate parent to you by being an exemplary one to your brother. I didn't think you needed my guidance. You always approached your mother about such things."

"Well, I couldn't do that anymore, could I?"

Dad looked down at his glass. "No…I suppose not."

"You shouldn't have abandoned me when she died."

I stared at the fire. There was so much more I could say, but all the hurt, frustration, disappointment, and bitterness I'd held towards Dad for the past twenty-four years was expressed in those last eight words. I couldn't keep choking on the bitter pill lodged in my throat this entire time.

"I'm sorry."

My eyebrows raced to my hairline. I blinked. I thought I misheard him. "What?"

Dad looked at me, his face slouched with regret. "I was wrong…and I'm sorry, son."

I could have asked him "For what?" or made him work for my forgiveness, but I didn't. I couldn't. Enough was enough. Dad's got a ton of pride, so the fact that he manned up and apologized was huge. And if he could be brave enough to admit that he was wrong, then maybe I could be brave enough to let go of the past that I'd dragged with me for so long.

"I'm sorry, too…_Dad_."

Not gonna lie, calling Dad _Dad_ instead of _Father_ for the first time felt weird. Really weird. But after his eyes flashed with hope, and especially after Elena's eyes teared up when I drove to her place later that night and told her what'd happened, I decided that saying "Father" was _so_ 1864 and that maybe I'd try to stick with this "Dad" thing. Maybe it'd feel right after a while.

It did.

As Elena chats with her family and Stefan, I extend my hand to Dad. "Thanks for coming to Elena's graduation," I say. "It meant a lot to her. To us."

He takes my hand – an older replica of his – and shakes it. "She's a fine girl, your Elena. It takes hard work to graduate a Master's program with Honors. I couldn't be prouder of her for all she's accomplished."

"She's amazing," I agree. "I'm glad you and Stefan were able to celebrate with us."

"The least your brother and I could do was support Elena on her special day. She's done a lot for our family," he says, no doubt referring to the way she kicked all of our asses over winter break. He leans close. "And if you ask her to become an official part of the Salvatore family, you have my blessing," he adds in a lowered voice. He winks at me before rejoining the rest of our families. I loiter by myself for a brief moment, not because I'm reeling from what Dad insinuated but because I don't want to explain to everyone why I'm grinning like a loon. Because what Dad implied about Elena joining the Salvatore family? She and I've talked about it. It's going to happen. Not for another two to three years – Elena wants to find a job and make a name for herself there, and I want to establish my reputation as a prominent Civil War scholar at U of A – but Elena will most definitely be a Salvatore by the end of the decade.

Or a Gilbert-Salvatore. Or she can keep her maiden name. Don't get me wrong, I'm going to make a strong case for Elena Salvatore, but she can take on whatever name she wants when we get hitched – I don't need her to change her name to know that she's mine and I'm hers.

When I rejoin the group, Elena's busy telling everyone to text us when they land. We exchange final hugs with everyone.

"See you soon!" Elena calls at the retreating figures of our brothers and parental figures as they disappear into the airport. We get into my Camaro and I pull away from the curb.

Elena's quiet as I ease us onto the highway. I squeeze her hand. "You okay?"

She nods. "It was nice seeing everyone this weekend."

"It was."

"Thanks for letting Aunt Jenna and Jeremy stay at the boarding house." She props her feet on the dashboard. "I think they would have stayed longer if your family wasn't leaving as well."

"Yeah, we'll have to keep an eye on our brothers' budding bromance. And whatever the hell's going on between your aunt and my Dad."

Elena makes a face. "I so don't want to think about that."

"You and I both."

"I don't want to think about anything, actually," she says. "I feel like I've done nothing but think for the past six years I've been in school. If I try to cram any more information into my brain, it's going to explode and leave brain goo all over your car."

I laugh. "This car is a brain goo-free zone, Elena. If any part of you is going to explode in my car, I'd rather it be this." My fingers skim under the hem of her shorts.

She rolls her eyes at my waggling eyebrows but smiles all the same. "Perv."

"Yeah, but you love me."

She exaggeratedly sighs. "Yeah, I do."

"Love you too."

We slip into comfortable silence as I continue driving towards Elena's apartment. Her brain may be temporarily turned off, but now that the school year's officially over, I can't help but think about how crazy it's been for us – as individuals and as a couple. We knew it would be challenging, what with the unknown ramifications of the policy change we'd have to deal with being added on top of our other responsibilities. My tactical instincts kicked in after Dad and Stefan left Atlanta after winter break, and Elena and I bunkered down in my tub to strategize how to approach the semester together.

First things first: our class. Elena and I decided that we'd probably receive a lot of negative attention if she re-signed up to TA Music Through History since the entire university was about to find out that we were in a relationship, so I'd officially instruct the class on my own. I still didn't feel confident in my ability to adequately teach the music section of the course, so Elena agreed to drop in on class twice a month as a guest lecturer. Her lessons were exceptional. Elena could be a Music History professor as easily as a Creative Writing one. She always made a ten-page outline for each of her guest-sessions, but she stuck to it for maybe about five minutes before she went off-script and recited over an hour's worth of music history from memory. I learned a ton from her lessons, especially the ones on the role on music in American wars. Did you know that World War II was the first time that classical music was mobilized as a weapon of war? I didn't, but Elena did. She's a born teacher, my Elena.

Unfortunately, the English department offered Elena's writing workshop leadership job to another student, so she emailed all of her professors to ask if they needed extra help or knew of any last-minute writing job openings in the Atlanta region. One of them responded the day before the semester began to say that the graduate student originally contracted to teach English 101G had to bow out due to "unforeseen circumstances" and asked Elena if she could fill in. Elena immediately accepted the offer, grateful to still be able to add a teaching job to her resume, and planned a class around the theme of Writing in Music – which, according to the anonymous reviews she received at the end of the semester, was "cooler than taking a boring English class about boring books" because "Miss Gilbert knew her shit" and "made [me] want to learn more".

Academics aside, Elena and I also used that bathtub strategy session to address how the changed policy would affect us as a couple.

"You know that we're going to be fish in a city-wide fishbowl, right?" I asked as I traced circles on Elena's wet stomach. "All eyes are going to be on us. We're going to have no privacy whenever people see us together."

Elena twisted to face me. "Are you okay with that? I know how much you like your privacy."

I kissed her forehead. "Sacrificing my privacy is a small price to pay to be with you in public, Elena."

"I was hoping you'd say that." The water sloshed as she slumped into my chest. "No more sneaking around, right?"

"No more," I agreed. "We should meet with Dean Shane as soon as possible to let him know about us. We've got nothing to hide."

(We didn't. But that didn't stop all of the faculty members who were against the policy change from acting like assholes and telling Elena and I to our face what they thought of our relationship. I was called a "disgusting predator" who "abused professorial authority" by "manipulating a student's emotions". Elena was branded either as an innocent caught in my lothario schemes or a slut who would sleep with any professor in exchange for academic favors. Both of us were told by numerous people who didn't have a fucking clue that we were _wrong_ to want to be together. Thank God for Ric. Whenever anyone made a snide comment about my and Elena's relationship in front of him, he promptly told them where they could shove their bigoted opinions about people they didn't know.)

I nudged Elena when she didn't respond. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated. "What happens when Dr. Pierce shows up and wants you back?"

My heart clenched at the way Elena's voice waivered at the mention of Katherine. "First of all, Katherine's not allowed to come within a thousand feet of campus. Word on the street is she was fired when the department looked into her spending history and discovered that she was using more than her share of departmental funds to pay for her personal expenses. _If_ I see her, I'm calling Campus Security and asking them to escort her off university property. And I don't care if she wants me back. _You're_ the one I want to be with, Elena. I'm not going to waste another second of my time on that vamp when I can spend it with you."

Elena's resulting smile shone brighter than the sun. "You always know how to make me feel better," she murmured. "How is that?"

"Don't know, but I'll try to keep doing it." I wrapped my arms around her. "I'll probably screw up more times than I can count, but I promise that I'll always try to do right by you."

"We'll both screw up," she admitted. "But we'll figure things out together."

I smirk as I glance over at a now-sleeping Elena in the passenger seat. She and I've definitely had our rougher moments as a couple. She accidentally forced me into bullshitting through her lecture on protest music when she forgot about class and decided to go to yoga with Caroline. We both had minor jealousy issues whenever someone mistakenly hit on us at Donovan's, and sometimes we just _sucked _at communication. Our biggest fight happened at my place just before Valentine's Day when Elena browsed through my cell phone and stumbled upon a weekly event in my calendar (that I poorly) titled "Jenny – Secret".

"Who's Jenny, and why are you meeting with her every Tuesday at seven?" she demanded.

I knew that my meetings with Jenny were nothing bad, so I didn't look up from the book I was reading. "I can't tell you."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"Because that's for me to know and you to dot dot dot."

(Probably wouldn't have responded that way had I known how much Elena was bugging out about this discovery.)

Her hands flew to her hips. "If you're going to cheat on me, you shouldn't be so obvious about it," she spat before storming outside. Her accusation stung, but I forced myself to take a deep breath and mark my page in my book before calmly following her out to the boarding house awning.

"Do you really think I'd cheat on you?" I asked. "Have I messed up so badly that you think I'd actually be capable of it?"

Elena sniffled and shook her head. The tears on her cheeks shone when they caught the moonlight. "No."

I sat next to her. "You've been jumpy all day." It was more a question than a statement. I knew it wasn't her time of the month. I had that week entered in my phone calendar as Be Extra Nice to Elena week. Something else had to be wrong.

"I know. I'm sorry." She sighed. "I found out today that three of my classmates received job offers. They're with great organizations, too: _The Atlantic_ and Random House Publishing and Dark Horse Comics. Any MFA candidate would dream of securing jobs at those companies."

"Are you jealous that you didn't get the offer?" I asked. "I don't remember you applying to those places."

"I didn't," she confirmed. "Between my three classes – four if you count teaching English 101, Donovan's Band, waiting for literary agents to get back to me about my novel, and spending time with you, I haven't had time to apply anywhere. And I don't want to give any of those things up, but I'm nervous that by the time I get around to applying to jobs, all of the good ones will be gone and I'll have to settle. I think I'm too young to settle, but I know that the job market is really difficult for writers so I'm trying to brace myself to not be picky and accept anything I'm offered."

"That's a lot to have on your mind, pretty girl."

Elena sighed. "I know, and I know I've been awful to you today. I'm so sorry I accused you of cheating on me. I _know_ you would never do that, but I've been a little crazy ever since I found out about those job offers, and come on, couldn't you have found a less scandalizing name for whatever you're doing than 'Jenny – Secret'?"

"Probably, but then we wouldn't be having this fun venting session." I tossed my arm over her shoulders. "What can I do to help?"

"It's too early in our relationship for me to ask you this—"

"Elena, nothing about our relationship has been conventional. Try me."

She exhaled. "How long are you planning to stay at the University of Atlanta?"

"Assuming they don't fire me? At least until they promote me to Associate Professor, so probably another four-five years," I said. "History professorships are really difficult to come by these days, especially at such a strong program like U of A. I'd be an idiot to give mine up for anything other than a really, really, _really_ good reason."

"Understandable."

"But," I brushed a strand of hair from Elena's face, "if you get a job offer in a city that's not Atlanta, I'll bombard every history department in that state with my CV. Especially if your offer is for Hawaii."

Elena giggled for the first time all day. "Hawaii would be nice."

"You in a bikini would be nice," I corrected. "If you want to wear one now, I'd be more than happy to turn up the heat in the boarding house."

"How generous of you," she teased.

"I'm a generous guy." I grinned at her. "But seriously, Elena? Apply to places where you'll be excited to go to work each day. Don't settle for a crappy job in Atlanta just because it'd be better for my career if you centered your job search here. Whatever you're offered, I promise that we'll make it work."

Elena crushed her mouth to mine. "I love you so much," she whispered against my lips. "And for the record, I'll have Bonnie cut off your balls with the sharpest knife Matt owns if you ever cheat on me."

I shuddered. "Noted."

(The mystery of "Jenny – Secret" was resolved on Valentine's Day when I took Elena to a swanky jazz club and showed her some of the moves that my swing instructor Jenny taught me during our weekly dance lessons. Elena forgave me for the calendar mishap once the jig was up.)

After her meltdown, Elena made it a priority to apply to a minimum of two jobs a week, the majority of them for editorial positions at various literary reviews, magazines, and publishing companies. She claims she doesn't have a preference between any of the thirty-plus places she's applied, but she's spent more time on _The Chattahoochee Review _and the _Kennesaw Review_'s websites than any other this semester. I'm secretly rooting for both of those places to come through because they're Atlanta-based publications. Elena said that her professors put in a good word for her with the people they know at those reviews, but no one's contacted her yet as far as I know. I keep telling her that someone's going to call her any day and beg her to work for them, but my reassurance is only a temporary fix to the anxiety that clouds her eyes. When the clouds get too heavy, I keep her busy with back massages, weekend getaways to my family's lake cabin, and sex.

Lots and lots of sex. Elena and I can't keep our hands off each other. There's something insanely primal about my constant need for her. And the fact that she wants me as often as I want her? So. Fucking. Hot. I'm pretty sure we've defiled every horizontal and vertical surface in my office, my family's lake cabin, her apartment, and the boarding house. For the record, sex in the dungeon? Mind. Blowing. Sometimes we fuck to music, but I've also taught Elena that the "music" of our bodies is just as sexy of a soundtrack.

Anyways, Elena also spent a ton of time with her Donovan's Band friends this semester, which was cool with me because I understood the sanctity of girls' nights and band time. Caroline and Bennett wanted to kidnap Elena for a sleepover? Fine by me; I had guy's night with Ric and our colleagues at a bar. Sometimes Tyler and Donovan joined us. Donovan gradually warmed to me after my grand gesture on Christmas Eve. He and I shared an unspoken understanding that we had to be civil to one another because we were two of the three most important men in Elena's life. It also made Elena happy to see us acting like pals and swapping the occasional recipe, so I didn't mind playing nice with Donovan even though I liked her three other bandmates better. Caroline, Tyler, and Bennett always went out of their way to invite me to their group get-togethers like concerts, brewery tours, another No Show Karaoke night (I stumbled my way through Billy Joel's 'We Didn't Start the Fire' with Elena because it was about history), and simply shooting the shit at one of their places for hours at a time. Bennett likes to say that I'm the "sixth fucking member of the motherfucking band," which is only true if they're granting band membership based on how much time I've spent with them. They even came with me and Elena to my lake cabin for Spring Break. Christ, there were a lot of campfire sing-along's that week. Tyler and Donovan brought their guitars and Bennett brought a decidedly non-metal pair of bongos (she told me that bongos were "fucking hardcore" when I asked), and the five of them serenaded the woodland critters with their favorite songs underneath a starlit sky.

The majority of Donovan's Band group activities revolved around their gigs at the bar. They kicked ass every weekend, but my favorite shows of theirs were the themed nights. Caroline had the crazy idea to host a luau in the middle of January and convinced Donovan to dump a ton of sand on the bar floor, offer specials on island-themed cocktails, and crank up the heat so everyone could strip to their bathing suits and rock out to the band's summer-themed playlist. The band also played a set at Bree's Bar, and Bennett led a killer St. Patrick's Day gig filled with songs by The Dubliners, Dropkick Murphys, and Flogging Molly, but my favorite of their specialty shows was definitely the one where Elena and Elijah Mikealson shoved their instruments together and had a classy Dueling Pianos competition.

Holy hell, Elena has a voice that can stop a man at ten paces and bring him to his knees in five. She's still self-conscious about singing in public, but she obviously doesn't have a clue about her effect on her listeners. When she kicked off the Dueling Pianos night with Devil Doll's 'Bourbon in Your Eyes'? Even the unflappable Elijah's fingers waivered on his piano keys. Every person in that bar was bewitched by her honeyed bourbon vocals. Norah Jones? The White Stripes? Nirvana? Elena owned _all_ of their music.

The other members of The Originals offered Elena various forms of compliments after the show. For Finn and Klaus, it was a head nod of approval. Kol gave her a wink, a kiss on the cheek that came too close to her mouth for my liking, and an invitation to come to his apartment so the two of them could "make beautiful music together".

Rebekah took a different approach.

"You sounded bloody congested during your pitiful attempts to sing Norah Jones," she sniffed, "but I suppose your other vocals were average."

Elena choked on her beer. "Wow, average? Thanks, Rebekah."

"Don't mention it." She flipped her blonde hair and strutted towards Donovan with a glint in her eye.

Elena, Elijah, and I watched her walk away with amused expressions. Elijah sighed. "I apologize for my sister's way with words, Elena. She can come across as harsh sometimes, but she means well."

Elena brushed him off with a wave of her beer bottle. "No worries, Elijah. Rebekah's always insisted that my skills are abysmal, so I'm proud to be considered average."

"You and your band are quite capable, Elena," Elijah countered. "It was a pleasure to play with you for the first and last time."

"The last time?" Elena repeated. "Why the last time?"

His lips quirked into a smile. "Tatia and I have decided that it would be in both of our best interests if I opened another practice in your nation's capital. I'm moving into her home at the end of the month."

"Congratulations!" Elena gushed. "That's so exciting! And so soon!"

"This move has been in the works for quite some time," Elijah said. "Rebekah and Niklaus aren't too happy with me at the moment, but I anticipate that they'll support my decision in due time."

"You're their brother. They'll come around," I said.

"Perhaps, but I'm sure you can perceive that Niklaus and Rebekah are very capable of holding grudges for petty reasons."

Elena turned to me. "Don't let me hold grudges against Caroline, Tyler, and Bonnie, okay?" She turned back to Elijah. "Bonnie's moving to Moscow this summer to be the Head Lab Technician at the Russian branch of her current job."

"How exciting," Elijah said. "I'm sure Tatia knows plenty of people your friend can contact. I'll ask her to pass along some names and email addresses. And Caroline and Tyler?"

"Caroline just accepted a position as the evening anchor at a small news station in St. Paul, Minnesota, and Tyler's going to move there with her," Elena explained. "They're leaving two days after graduation. Caroline's going to tell Klaus tonight."

Elijah sighed. "And this evening was going so well."

Sure enough, a loud "WHAT" sounded from the other side of the bar. The three of us saw Klaus standing in front of Caroline with a desperate look on his face. We couldn't hear a word of their conversation, but from the looks of it he insisted that she reconsider and she said no. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it, took a deep breath, and gave Caroline a hug hard enough to pop out her organs before he trudged out of Donovan's with defeat etched on his face.

"Between you and Caroline leaving, your brother's going to have crazy abandonment issues," I commented. Elena smacked me in the arm and told me to be nice because it hurts to be left behind, and she and I shared a look that was just as much about Klaus's hurt as it was about her friends moving on as it was about the way both of us felt abandoned after our families died or gave up on us. And yeah, part of me felt for Klaus because I used to be that guy who felt abandoned by the world. I knew how much it sucked. But I would gladly endure those hurt feelings all over again if I knew that Elena would be the shimmering light at the end of my tunnel.

I park in Elena's apartment parking lot and kiss her sleeping face. "We're here."

She stirs. "But we just left the airport."

I chuckle at how rumpled she looks. "Come on, Sleepy. Let's go inside."

We hike to her apartment where Donovan's sitting in front of the TV with a plate of homemade taquitos. I plop next to him and watch whatever crime investigation show he's watching as Elena brings her laptop to the living room. She signs into her email.

"Anything?" I ask. Between Caroline and Tyler's move tomorrow and Bonnie starting to pack for Moscow, Elena's been freaking out about her lack of job and publishing deal. After she turned in her final portfolio, she bumped up her job applications from two a week to two a day. If she's not following up with the places she already applied to, she's on the prowl for other jobs she thinks she'd like or publishing companies she wants to submit her novel.

"Anything?" I ask.

The despondent look on her face is the only answer Donovan and I need. He offers his plate to her. "Taquito?"

"Yes." Elena snatches one.

"Where's my offer?" I demand. Donovan rolls his eyes.

"Get your own food, old man."

Elena's all too quiet between the two of us. I sling my arm over her shoulders. "You're going to get an amazing job offer any day now. Don't worry."

"I can't help it," she grumbles. "Am I really that sucky of an applicant that no one wants me to work for them?"

"Shut up, you know you're amazing," Donovan retorts.

"Swedish Chef's right," I say, earning me another Donovan eye roll. "Knowing your luck, you're going to get a killer job the day a publisher begs to publish your novel. Then you're going to make more money than you know what to do with and I'll be able to abandon this professor thing for my new, full-time job as Elena Gilbert's kept man." I lower my voice. "I promise I'll work really hard to earn my keep."

Donovan scowls. "Dude, not while I'm eating."

"Just letting Elena know that she'll be taken care of, _dude_."

"Cut it out or I'll destroy both of you tonight," Elena cuts in. "You're going to receive a patented brand of Ripley whoop-ass."

Donovan laughs. "Is that a threat? Because I was going to team up with you and Rambo to give McManus #2 and The Bride a farewell they'll never forget, but I can add you to my list of enemies if you want."

As the two of them bicker back and forth, I steal Elena's laptop and open her Excel file that lists all of the places she's applied. I also open her separate spreadsheet that lists the publishing companies where she has or wants to submit her novel. Apparently she can only submit her novel to one company at a time, so she's already been rejected by Picador, Back Bay Books, and HarperCollins. She sent her novel to Simon & Schuester a little over a month ago, so I've got my fingers crossed that these people are going to be the ones who aren't idiots and will give Elena a chance to show the world how crazy-talented she is.

The three of us sit around and do our own thing for the next couple of hours. Donovan spends most of the time in his room making calls about the bar while Elena applies to a copyediting position at Avon Romance and I make progress on a book she recommended to me about the West Coast recording studio scene in the 1960s: _The Wrecking Crew: The Inside Story About Rock and Roll's Best-Kept Secret_. Music Through History was such a success that the department asked me to teach it again in the fall, so I'm trying to brush up on my music history knowledge.

After Elena receives texts from both her aunt and brother that they arrived safely at their destinations, she stands. "I'm going to get ready for tonight," she says. "We're leaving in thirty minutes, right?"

"Sounds good," Donovan calls through his door.

I'm confused. "What the hell do you need to get ready for?"

She smirks at me. "It's everyone for him or herself out there tonight, Damon. Gotta look sharp to play sharp."

"You're not going easy on me because it's my first time playing with everyone?" I pout. She shakes her head, gives me a deceptively coy look that turns my dick to stone, and saunters to her bedroom.

Well, now I can't concentrate on my book.

I read the same page for the next ten minutes when Elena's shriek fills the air. I bolt to her room. I force myself to be a good boyfriend and overlook the fact that she's wearing nothing but a tight black shirt and a matching pair of panties. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Tears well in her eyes as she points to her open laptop screen. I sit at her desk and look at the computer, expecting to learn that her favorite band's touring this summer or that a famous writer died. But no, her screen's open to her Gmail account...and to an email from Simon & Schuester.

_**From:  
>To: Elena Gilbert<br>Sent: Mon 05/13/2013 5:13PM  
>Subject: Gray<strong>_

_**Dear Ms. Gilbert,**_

_**I recently reviewed a copy of your manuscript **_**Gray**_** and was impressed by the strength of your characters, your devotion to realistic historical detail, and your expressive tone of voice. On behalf of Simon & Schuester, I invite you to publish your novel through our company.**_

_**I have attached a publishing contract to this email. Please contact me if you have any questions.**_

_**Best,**_

_**Alma Alghasi  
>Associate Editor<br>Simon & Schuester**_

I look at Elena, who's shaking like a leaf. "I did it," she whispers.

My grin's about to split my face. "You did it!"

"I did it," Elena repeats, louder this time.

I scoop her in my arms and spin us around her room. "You're going to be a published writer!"

"I'm going to be a published writer!" she yells, and by that time Donovan's in the room and he reads the email and he's whooping and spinning around with the rest of us and I can overlook that Donovan's seeing Elena in her underwear because Elena's beaming and crying and I'm beaming and I'm so happy and proud and in awe of her that I could cry, but I don't because this is her moment and I'm determined to keep my waterworks in check so she can bask in her glory.

"I have so much to do!" she exclaims as she catches her breath. "I have to call Aunt Jenna and Jeremy, and I have to email my professors, and do you think they'd be willing to review my contract to tell me if I'm getting a good offer? Oh, and I need to talk to my agent because she knows the ins and outs of the business better than I do, and—"

"Elena." I grip her shoulders to steady her. "You just found out that one of the top publishing companies in the world wants your book. Put on some pants and get ready to celebrate tonight with your four favorite people...and Donovan."

He flips me the bird.

Elena's eyes dart between mine and the computer. "Are you sure? I don't want to leave a bad impression because I took too long to respond—"

"That contract's not going anywhere, Lena."

"Yep. No take-backs. It's your book contract." I crushed her in another hug. "Don't worry, I know you're having a moment so I'll take it easy on you tonight."

"Easy? Are you kidding?" Elena pushes out of my arms, sass blazing in her eyes. "Bring it on, Salvatore."

Donovan retreats to his room. Elena rummages through her drawers for a pair of pants, but I'm so high from her success that my hands and mouth can't get enough of her and I'm so close to coaxing her _out_ of her clothes when Donovan bangs on her door and hollers that we've got to leave if we don't want Caroline's wrath to rain upon us. The three of us grin like a couple of clowns as we hop into my car; we're still grinning twenty minutes later when we walk into Laser City and see Caroline, Tyler, and a war paint-wearing Bennett waiting for us. Elena shares her good news, and there are squeals and hugs all around as we pay for our hour – yes, sixty minutes – of freaking laser tag.

As the others head into the holding area, Elena grabs my hand to stop me. I look at her. "What's up?"

"I know things have been crazy lately between graduation, everyone's moves, and my never-ending job and publisher search. But before things get even crazier in there," she gestures to the holding cell, "I need to thank you for everything you've done for me this year."

It's amazing how Elena can make Laser City feel like the most romantic place on Earth. "I hardly did anything," I protest. "You're the brains behind this operation, dearest."

"If I'm the brains, you're the bones," she says. "You're my biggest support. Every time I'm on the verge of freaking out and convincing myself that I can't do something or that I'm not good enough to be a writer, you're always there to pull me back from the edge and make me feel like I'm a superhero at life. And it's so rare to find people who make you feel bulletproof just by being in the same room as them."

The neon arcade lights accentuate the sudden blush on her cheeks. "And that was a really cheesy and inappropriately sentimental speech. Sorry."

"Hey." I kiss her hard in the middle of the room. So what if a ton of snot-nosed kids are pointing at us? "I like cheesy and inappropriately sentimental from you."

She grins. "Yeah?"

"To stick with the theme of cheesy and _appropriately_ sentimental, you are, by far, the best thing that has and will ever happen to me. And no matter what happens with your job, book, or anything else you want from life, you've got me as long as you want me."

"Forever," she whispers.

"Forever," I echo. And then she throws her arms around my neck and kisses me so hard, I'm gasping for breath when she pulls away to a mixture of gasps from the kiddos and scoffs from the disgusted housewives and a really loud whistle from Randy from his front-row view to our show.

"I love you," I blurt.

"I love you, too."

She links her arm with mine. "Indiana Jones and I are ready, Randy."

I look at her as Randy unlocks the holding room doors. "I get a laser tag code name?" I can barely keep the delight from my voice.

"You're a part of the group, Dr. Jones." Her smile is blinding as she pretends to cock her laser gun. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm ready to keep this date that you promised me five months ago. Shall we?"

There's nothing else I'd rather do.

* * *

><p><strong>Dearest Friends,<br>**

**It's been a pleasure to share _Bourbon in Your Eyes_ with you. ****Your encouraging words have nurtured me as a writer and as a person over the past sixteen months. ****I'm humbled to be part of such a supportive and passionate fandom.  
><strong>

**Until next time,**

**Amy  
><strong>


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